We woke up hot, and early.
We had considered going for a late night swim after work yesterday, but in the end decided that we were too tired to bother, and that it was all just too difficult.
We were late to bed, and fell asleep in the very first moments that we got into it, and then woke up sticky, in a tangle of sheets.
We put on our dressing gowns, for our morning coffee-in-bed, because we always do, but it was too hot for them really. We have never before needed, and therefore do not possess, a lightweight dressing-gown-substitute, and so there wasn’t much choice anyway. I think it would probably be too peculiar to sit in bed drinking coffee in the nude, and certainly not an option for answering the door to the postman or taking Number Two Daughter a cup of coffee.
We could have got dressed of course, but that would have started the day too soon, and been a waste of an idle lie-in.
It did not take much discussion to decide that we did not want to spend the day in Windermere. The sun was glaring balefully through the gap in the curtains, and already the day was headache-bright.
Number Two Daughter appeared at this point, and we discovered that Mrs. Number Two Daughter had succumbed to a savage bout of hay fever.
Of course this is a ghastly problem at this time of year, and at its very worst in places like this, surrounded by farms and trees, all bleeding the dreadful treacherous pollen into the dry air.
Poor Mrs. Number Two Daughter indeed looked horribly miserable, with swollen, bloodshot eyes and a streaming nose, and a marked reluctance to get out of bed, which seemed entirely reasonable under the circumstances.
We thought that the best solution might be to head out to the coast, where there might be less pollen and fresher air.
Poor Mrs. Number Two Daughter snuffled her way blindly down the stairs, and we loaded ourselves into the camper van. This is always cheering, even when you are ill, and eventually the sea air did seem to help a little.
We stopped on the beach at Ulverston, looking out across the bay at Morecambe, and finally Blackpool in the far distance.
The tide was out, and we walked and walked, across the dry, cracked sand, baked salt-hard by the sunshine, and then further out, to the sea.
We had to cross a little stream on the beach to reach the sea. This was shockingly cold, because of coming down from the high fells, and we splashed across it quickly. I was not very quick, because my flip flops kept getting stuck in the sand. I could not take them off, because I don’t at all like the feeling of the soft mud that you get on beaches, especially when it gets between my toes.
There was no mud anywhere else, and we pattered barefoot across the wide beach to the sea.
The sea was breathtakingly warm.
I mean really, truly warm, not just acceptably cold the way that a warm sea usually is. The sea today was warm like a bath, like liquid slippers.
We marvelled happily at this phenomenon, and sploshed along contentedly for ages, not going anywhere particularly, just ambling in the sea whilst Roger Poopy leaped about splashily, and chased seagulls.
I was more cautious than Roger Poppy, because there were quite a few little jellyfish floating about, and I am not very brave when it comes to creatures that are a different shape to me. Spiders come into the same bracket.
Fortunately nobody got eaten by a jellyfish, not even Roger Poopy, and we had just started to stroll back when we noticed the tide coming in.
It came in very quickly and cut us off.
The little stream had gone from being knee deep to several inches above my waist deep.
You read about things like this sometimes, especially in places like Morecambe Bay, which is where we were, notorious for quicksandy misfortunes and drowned cockle pickers.
Since you are reading this you will know that we did not drown. It was only a small adventure, and hardly mattered at all, because of the sunshine, it might have been very horrid if it had been in December. As it was we were so hot that we jumped into it with pleasure, and squeaked and laughed as we waded across it. We all had dry clothes in the camper van, and the water had been wonderfully warmed by the ingress of the friendly sea, but imagine if there had been bitter frosts on the ground and miles to walk before we could get home.
Under those circumstances I suppose we might have been more careful in the first place.
Back at the camper van we peeled off wet clothes and sat around in our deckchairs, eating cold beef, and chicken, and salad, followed with slabs of blueberry cake.
We went for a last swim in the stream before it was time to go, but the tide had begun to retreat by then, and it was quite shallow again.
You will be pleased to hear that Mrs. Number Two Daughter looked, and felt, considerably better. Sea air, that’s the thing, and I expect the drugs helped as well.
When we got home something nice happened.
We were unloading the camper van when Mark noticed something in the basket of one of the bicycles on the back of it.
It was a plastic bag with a magazine inside.
The magazine was called Truck and Trucker Monthly, and it had been left open at a page which showed a bright picture of our camper van.
Somebody – not somebody local – had taken a picture of it and sent it to a magazine.
Somebody else had seen it, and taken it to the camper van and left it for us so that we would know.
We were very touched indeed, what a kind thing to do.
We were very pleased indeed, both by our unexpected fame, but also by the thoughtfulness of the person who had left it for us.
There are some lovely people in the world.
