Here is a summery story. It’s part of a longer story. It includes a book recommendation. It gives a little picture of the English seaside. Who knows what someone is thinking when we pass them on the beach?
Pale yellow sunlight crept through, under and around the thin curtains at the caravan windows. Bright lines spread over the single bed and nudged Marie’s eyelids open. She had slept soundly once the music, shouting and laughter had died down outside and presumably the children had gone to bed.
The adult conversation had soon turned to cries of goodnight and see you on the beach tomorrow and then one by one the lights went out all over the holiday site.
Marie put down her novel, switched off her bedside lamp and fell asleep. The book she was reading was called The Correspondent, by Virginia Evans, and it told a woman’s life story through the letters she wrote.
Marie had slept soundly, soothed by the gentle breeze hardly rocking the caravan and she woke with the dawn. She pushed open the small window and smelt the salt on that breeze. She smiled at the faint sound of waves crashing on the shore and the louder sound of gulls screeching to greet the morning.
Marie had a plan. She would get out and about while her fellow holiday makers slept on, before the salty breeze was overwhelmed by the smell of frying bacon and the sound of the breakers drowned out by streamed music, squabbling teenagers and yells for children to stop playing and eat something.
She would walk on the beach before it was invaded by a splashing, squealing army wielding buckets and spades, bats and balls, bottles of pop, crisps and sandwiches.
She pulled on her jeans and tee shirt and shoved her feet into flip flops, before opening the caravan door and walking down the steps.
Bright, brave, red geraniums caught her eye, pushing their way through the parched ground around the caravan. They could do with some water, she thought.as she strode past.
She stepped over the short, hard-wearing grass and along the stony walkway leading towards a narrow, sandy track. She shivered when her feet sank into cold, damp sand. Sharp grit bit into her toes and yellow gorse and purple sea holly tore at her bare arms.
The path narrowed as she climbed upwards with laborious sinking steps and she was careful to avoid bits of broken-down wood and wire fencing which had been beaten down by the vegetation it was meant to hold back.
Scratched toes and arms weren’t part of her plan, but as she neared the top of the sandhill, the going got easier. Patches of blue appeared in the grey sky, and she stopped to take some deep breaths. Tall, spiky grass swayed in the breeze and pink sea thrift and blue lupins filled the air with scent. A buzzing bee announced that it wasn’t just her and the gulls who were awake.
Taking one more step, Marie looked over the brow of the hill and at last she saw the sea, vast, grey and noisy, crashing onto the golden sand of the wide beach.
She slid down the other side of the hill on soft sand and set out across the beach towards the tempting waves. The water was freezing as it quickly covered her feet and soaked her jeans, but she kept on paddling. The waves tore at her flip flops, and she watched them float away.
To float away, how easy would that be? Would anyone notice?
She remembered her book that was waiting for her by her bed, and the letters written by that woman. Maybe she should write a letter, but who would read it?
She tasted salt water on her lips. It was trickling down her cheeks, and she wiped away her tears as she walked further into the shallows.
The shifting ground suddenly shelved into a dip. A stronger wave took her by surprise. It pushed against the side of her knees. Marie wobbled and before she could right herself, another wave hit her from behind. It took her breath away and she lost her footing. Now she was up to her neck in sea water and a wave washed over her head.
She heard a child cry out and forced herself to stand upright and get her bearings. Facing the shore, she saw an older man, a young girl and a dog watching her.
She dragged herself to her feet and waded back to dry land. She was shivery and heavy in her sodden clothes and when she got to the beach, the dead weight of sand clung to her.
A voice called out from the little family. Are you alright? Do you need any help?
I’m fine, she said, I’ve got to get back. Breakfast and a book are waiting for me and the geraniums need watering.
Wander Well,
Mandy.
Things I love:
- The book “The Correspondent” by Virginia Evans.
- Memories of caravan holidays.
- A deserted beach.
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Wandering Through The Land Of Nod. 