We are home.
We have spent so much that we really should be at work, but we are not, partly because we didn’t actually get back here until almost eleven o’clock at night, and we have only just finished unloading the camper van and stuffing sandy socks and salt-splashed trousers into the washing machine.
It has been the nicest day.
You might remember that we went to bed in the middle of the most awful storm last night, with rain lashing the camper van and winds making it rock madly from side to side. This did not trouble me because it is a wonderful safe snug feeling, to be in a warm nest listening to appalling weather, and I slept like a plump toddler after a day at the swings. I did not even know when the dogs got frightened in the night and tried to get into bed with us, and had to be banished by Mark. He is not exactly heartless, but our bed in the camper van is very small. You can’t have an argument in it, and it will certainly not fit four, no matter how friendly you are.
When we woke up this morning the skies were the ice-blue colour of topaz, and the sunlight glittered on the sands.
We wrapped up warmly against the biting wind.
We walked for miles along the beach, and chased one another and played the age-old game of imprisoning one another behind lines drawn in the sand. We have played this since the children were small. It is not really funny at all, but makes us all laugh a great deal.
The dogs rushed about barking at seagulls, sniffing at the seawater and leaping splashily into the channels, some of which turned out to be surprisingly deeper than expected.
We had bare feet, except Oliver, and by the time we got back our toes were numb with ice-cold seawater and scratchy with sand. We dusted ourselves off and sank happily into the warm comfort of the camper van, looking through the windows at frozen families with pink-faced children, trying to eat ice creams and fish and chips in the shelter of the steps.
Sometimes we know we are very lucky indeed.
Somebody knocked on the door and told us how marvellous our camper van was, which we thought was kind. He stayed for a little while, and told us about his sick wife and love of beautiful things.
We are more lucky than we can find the words to explain.
Afterwards we went into Blackpool itself, and cycled.
Cycling along a flat, traffic-free road is one of the nicest things you can do, especially with the tide in and the seagulls shrieking and circling overhead. It is almost like flying, weaving and gliding between straggling families of earth-bound travellers, leaving them far behind in seconds. Getting off the bike at the end is heavy and dull, suddenly to be slow and lumpen again.
We went to Waterstones again for Oliver’s book. I accidentally bought another book as well, and so did Lucy.
Lucy pointed out that even though it was reckless extravagance, it was a jolly sight less expensive than going to the Pleasure Beach or up the Tower, so we ought to consider ourselves very sensible and restrained. She was right about this, and once I had decided that this was true I did not feel nearly so guilty.
It is wonderful to have unread books. There is always Windermere Library, but they mostly have to cater to the literary tastes of retired people, so there are a lot of Westerns and Georgette Heyer. These are books that I have chosen for myself, not just the only ones without loopy handwriting on the cover, and they will make nights in the taxi happy for weeks and weeks to come.
I will be able to look forward to going to work. This is a lovely feeling.
Then we went for a very late lunch.
We should really have cooked our own lunch. We had got all the things in the camper van that we needed to do it, but it was the last day, and we all wanted the adventure of spicy, unfamiliar foods again.
We ate spiced lamb and yoghurt, and green, leafy salads, followed by great dollops of sticky puddings. Then we waddled back to our bikes and slowly sailed back to the camper van, where you will not be astounded to hear that we all thought we would like a little snooze.
When we woke up we all knew that the day was over. We had a cup of tea, and slowly, reluctantly set off for home. This took ages, because of some blockage or other on the motorway, but nobody minded, because we had the story on the CD player, and we were warm and sleepy and contented.
Ted rang to make sure that Mark was going to go to work in the morning.
I have looked at the bank account and thought that maybe it could be worse.
We have stuffed everything into the washing machine and lit the fire.
The children have retired to bed. Mark is doing something technical on his computer.
The holiday is over.
Books and bicycles and wonderful food and fresh air and theatre and cinema and each other’s company.
It has been utterly magnificent.
