Happy

I have hardly got the words to tell you about what a splendid day I have had.

It has been the sort of day filled to bursting with tiny, happy details. These are too numerous and insignificant to be listed, but they all add up to a balloon of contentedness, floating serenely through the warm evening air, probably until it encounters the sharp hangover tomorrow morning.

It cannot be denied that I have had a glass of wine, which is not helping with my literary efforts. Actually it might have been the second glass which was responsible. Or maybe the third. I am not sure which one was to blame, but definitely one of them has made my fingers feel rubbery and the thinking process is beginning to feel like trying to untangle a ball of wool from a couple of excited puppies.

It has been the loveliest day.

It was raining when we left Windermere for Blackpool this morning.

We wore coats and boots.

We slung everything determinedly into the wet camper van and ploughed down the motorway, and slowly, slowly the clouds parted. This is not an unfamiliar experience when you leave the Lake District.

Even despite the rain , already life was looking up. We were in the camper van, dear and crumbly, and smelling of holidays. All the way down to Blackpool we had the story playing on the CD player. I have read about Frodo’s first meeting with Strider so many times that I could probably have recited bits of it, but somehow it was still exciting to hear, even though I knew perfectly well that they would not be murdered in their beds by Black Riders.

This might be a spoiler, but really the giveaway clue is the two and a half books that come afterwards, all of which still star Frodo and Strider.  Really you ought to be able to work it out from that.

The day got warmer and warmer.

We peeled our clothes off as we went.

You will not be surprised to discover that within ten minutes of parking the camper van on the North Promenade at Cleveleys, and dashing off down the beach just for a quick look at the sea, we were utterly soaked to the skin and had to dash back to the camper van and take the lot off and start again.

We had to hurry up with this, because we had arranged to meet my parents, and even if you are socially distanced it is not good form to turn up for the first time in six months smelling faintly of seaweed and possible sewage outlet.

We have not seen my parents for months and months, and I was more excited than I can tell you.

They got there about half an hour after we did, which was fortunate, because we had just about managed to look respectable again by then.

They had come to meet us for lunch.

They had even brought some lunch.

Not only lunch, but a huge collection of new plants, one of which was a lemon geranium that I have long coveted, and which filled the whole camper van with its blissful scent.

We had the most splendid picnic of sandwiches and sausages and chocolate eclairs and chicken and salad. We have talked a great deal whilst we have all been locked down, so there was nothing new to be learned, but somehow the telephone does not work nearly as well as being all together, and it was the sort of conversation where a happy laugh was bubbling just below the surface the whole time, just looking for an excuse to come out.

We ate so much that Oliver sloped off for a little sleep afterwards.

I thought that we had just been there for half an hour when they announced that they had to go, and was surprised and a bit disappointed, but actually it turned out that the whole afternoon had slid away, and in fact we ought to be contemplating going home ourselves.

We didn’t, though. The skies had somehow cleared to a glorious shimmering blue, and we dived off back down the beach for a swim.

We did not exactly swim. It was more like a very deep paddle. Mark kicked his feet off the floor and floated, but Oliver and I kept our heads firmly sticking out of the water. Mark’s bravery was rewarded by some grumpy sea-creature biting his toe, which almost made me retreat from the water for ever, but he assured me that it hardly hurt at all, and that probably it was not something with dozens of clicking legs or a terrifying lethal sting, so I tried very hard not to think about it, and just carried on.

Roger Poopy is scared of swimming. He has learned this from his father, who will have nothing to do with water, and who waited grimly on the shore whilst we splashed and yelled and bounced about.

Roger Poopy did not want to lose us.

After some anxious rushing about at the edge of the water, he launched himself determinedly at the massive waves. He coughed and sneezed in an agony of panic as they crashed terribly over his head, but dog-paddled breathlessly towards us all the same.

Mark had to rescue him. We all crowded around and told him admiringly what a brave dog he was.

Afterwards we walked along the beach in the warm sunlight, dripping and laughing and pushing one another into the sand.

We had to go home. Oliver has got school in the morning.

When we got home we finished the day with an evening drink with our friends the Peppers. This was the bit that has led to us being still awake after midnight and also contentedly sloshing with some good wine they had brought.

It was a very happy ending.

I am too sleepy to carry on. If I remember any more details I will have to tell you properly tomorrow. It has been the nicest possible day, even if it does not make for very entertaining reading.

I will try again tomorrow.