We are home.
It has been a very happy break indeed.
It had stopped raining when we got up, and the sea was a slate grey colour with white-topped waves rushing in to the shore, so misty that you could not quite tell where it was starting to be sky. We walked for miles and miles as it slowly cleared, breathing in the salt and the seaweedy smell, all along the beach and then along the path at the top of the little cliffs.
Rosie found all sorts of treasure that she would have liked to bring home with her, and dragged, hopefully, for a little way before being compelled to desist. There was an almost-fresh dead rabbit, and a dried-up fish, which smelled to have been dead for some time, and a feathery seagull’s wing. We would not let her keep any of it, greatly to her disappointment, because they would have made lovely additions to her nice warm nest underneath our bed in the camper van.
Roger Poopy rolled in some badger poo. He still smells revolting, even now, hours and hours later. We were too tired to bath him tonight but I can tell you now that tomorrow is going to prove a day of misfortune as far as he is concerned.
Neither dog wanted to get out of the camper van when we got home. They hid underneath the bed and had to be summoned, with some threats, and even then Roger Poopy got as far as the garden gate and then turned and dived back into the camper van again.
I sympathised entirely but we were relentless.
We walked until we were quite worn out, after which we came back to the camper van for some breakfast, and a walk in the other direction. We did not walk as far in the other direction. Barrow Council has inexplicably installed some posts along the path with shiny buttons glued on to them. Obviously Mark pressed one, although it could quite easily have turned out to be the self-destruct button for the nuclear plant next door, really he can be reckless at times.
It did not turn out to be a self-destruct button but a quite astonishing invention whereby the post suddenly began to recite a poem, in a pronounced Barrovian accent. We were entirely amazed by this, and a little cynical about the poem, which did not rhyme, and sloped off quickly in case anybody shouted at us for ruining the tranquil afternoon.
After that we thought we might be in the market for some further excitement, and went to B and Q. Well, Mark went to B and Q. I stayed in the camper van and read my book, because I did not wish to purchase electrical goods or cement or any of the other treasures on offer in B and Q, which would have made it dull, and would have made me into one of those wives you see trailing along after the trolley with a patient expression and the occasional sigh. Usually they are wearing floral blouses and polyester trousers, which off course I wasn’t, but it would have been a close run thing anyway.
After that we did my exciting thing, and went to Waterstones. I was pleased about this, and bought one of our course textbooks, even though it is far too late, because it looked more interesting than I had imagined it would be, and a book by one of our lecturers. If it is good I will get him to sign it next time I see him. It is a bit disconcerting because the first page is about a Japanese man with his hands down his trousers, and really teachers are not supposed to think about those sorts of things. He is supposed to think about braided narratives, not peculiar foreign sexual habits.
After that we went for a last picnic on the beach before coming home. We have cleaned the camper van now and hoovered all the sand out of the doormat. It is shiny and polished ready to set off for Oliver after work on Sunday night.
Oliver finishes school tomorrow but he is going to stay with his girlfriend so we will not see him until Monday.
Hardly any time and we will be setting off again.
There is an encouraging thought.
