All the hob got was a cursory wipe: it loosened the dirt.
Time had to be spent washing up dishes because there were no more dishes. Time was well spent, finding waterproof trousers.
'What's the tide doing?'
'I forgot to look. Let's just go. There'll be a beach.' Mr shrugs, and we think about it.
He is correct.
A concurrence of mutual nodding.
Cold rain at low tide: wind swoops offshore, plays with sea spray. White furls ride, giddy, we keep pace, pouncing: look, always look: a jelly fish, a lost glove, a left shoe, the light, the light, the variegations of sand: see that mane flail, this one is tiny, a foal, see how it moves, a little sidewards, unsteady on new legs. In the rocks, unnerving texture: resonant of bones and teeth: in pockets, treasures of pearlescent shell.
Picnic in the car, forcing cold fingers around hot cups, eyes fat with sights.
'Campervan.' Mr says, and all our heads are nodding: yes.