Blue sky stretches over the whole weekend and shows no signs of shrinkage. Some people say it's too hot, they are instantly harangued: have they forgotten so soon all the weary intolerance of grey skies? Other people recall The Last Great Summer, 1976: lotus eating and lounging and even beige was a bright colour back then. We never wore shoes from March to November, only sand on our feet. We never ate any food except ice pops.
We remember this, lying in the shade at Bluebell Barns, watching banana tree leaves waft. We all have sunglasses on. Two empty bottles of dandelion muscatel cast shadows in the kitchen, which we can't see from this angle but our fuzzy heads hold the image. And the Prosecco bottles, and the red wine. I'm drinking black coffee, eating lazy breakfast bagels, feet up on a wicker table, watching those glossy tropical leaves, deciding on a sea cure.
The beach is cobbled in various sizes of warm stone. Out we wade, into remarkable clarity, making dream plans to buy the old beach shop house and grow sea buckthorn for jam and wine.
We will catch fish and I won't wear shoes.
On the table, a gingham cloth and one white candle.
We can make ice pops with elderflower champagne.