A postscript to my post “Hey Autumn, You Took Me By Surprise.” It’s a very short thought on the climate crisis and the devastating floods in Nepal and Tibet.
In August 2026
Lavender fades early
Bees leave the garden
A glacier collapses
The collapsed glacier hits the bottom of a valley.
Flood water and debris travel 62 miles downstream.
Buildings, roads, and vehicles are swept away.
And people.
People,
People
swept away
buried
missing.
Thousands of them.
About 4,500 miles lie between my garden lavender and the loss of life in Nepal and Tibet.
On our beautiful planet, in a climate crisis, may we find the connection.
In 2015 I visited Nepal on a Fair Trade Meet the People Tour, organised by the travel company Saddle Skedaddle. Unfortunately, they don’t run those tours anymore.
2015 was the year of a devastating earthquake in Nepal and we saw the effects of earthquake damage and the resilience of the people. It is heartbreaking to know that eleven years later, that beautiful country has again been hit by tragedy.
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.
In which I remember a day at the British seaside in a surprising heatwave when I couldn’t think of a word to describe how I was coping and how all my words for a written blog seemed to melt away in the heat. This is the comeback I’ve been waiting for.
With relief, I pushed open the white painted door and stepped into the cool interior. The Art Gallery shop in the quiet British seaside town was a feast for the eyes. It dazzled with vibrant colour as I gazed at seascapes, gulls and hillsides, with their light and flight captured forever in sympathetic frames. Alongside the paintings were textile art, jewellery and ceramics. A beautifully painted bee cup caught my eye, and I remembered the bumble bees enjoying the lavender in our garden at home, I was not thinking very much as I wandered around, trying not to bump into other tourists who were doing the same thing while they escaped the alien, hot, fierce sun.
“How are you coping with the temperature?” the friendly host said, as she took my payment.
I looked blankly at her.
My heat fogged brain was slow to respond, but eventually I said, “I don’t think I’ve got the words to describe how I’m coping; it is so beyond my experience, I reckon I need to learn a new language.”
This happened in June 2026. We were in Arnside, in the northwest of England, on the border of Cumbria and Lancashire. That area was just outside the danger zone for heatwave, but it was still very hot and dry. We’d only visited there in winter before, when it is beautiful in a freezing cold, bracing, storm laden way.
That day, apart from seeking cool and calm in a shop full of creative treasures, we had attempted to sit outside a pub and enjoy a cool drink, but the heat drove us indoors, where I ate a delicious prawn salad. We also walked along the beach, enjoying the warm sand and watching dogs swimming in the sea.
This was very pleasant and enjoyable for a holiday, and it was surprising. I’ve heard it on good authority that by July it was raining in the Northwest, so the weather didn’t stay alien for so long there.
JThe heatwave did take my words away. At times this year, it’s been an effort to talk, and it’s felt impossible for me to write. That’s why, although I’ve felt like I’m wandering, I haven’t written about it. Strangely, I didn’t even have the energy to worry about it!
Now, it is August and although I certainly want to see and feel some rain because my dry eyes hurt through looking at parched, scorched gardens and my skin is thirsty for moisture, I know I have to live in this drought and heat. I also know that I have to and want to write, so here I am.
I have, happily grown to enjoy never having to wear a coat and hanging washing out in the certainty of it drying.
I am mesmerised by dust clouds rising up whenever there is a hint of a breeze and devastated by the news of wildfires destroying trees and heathland, along with animal, bird and insect life. On the first day of August, I was surprised to see that the leaves on the sycamore tree round the corner from our house are turning golden already.
The question which the lady at the art gallery shop counter asked made me think.
Let me repeat that question for you:
How are you coping with the temperature? Do you have the words to tell us?
I’d love to hear.
Wander well
Mandy.
Three things I love:
The English seaside.
Paintings seaside souvenirs.
A beautiful greetings card.
There are more heatwave thoughts to come. Please like and subscribe.
