by Gil McNeil
‘What’s the first?’ I had asked a woman standing on a street corner yesterday on the way back from the park. (She’d offered to tattoo a dragon on my back in semi-permanent henna for £3.50 and seemed to have time on her hands to talk.)
‘Newquay,’ she replied.
‘So Woolacombe is like the Birmingham of surfing?’
‘I suppose,’ she said, looking perplexed. ‘Only without a spaghetti junction.’
‘Cheers,’ I replied.
‘What about the dragon?’ she asked.
I looked at the design again. It looked less like a mythical fire-breathing emblem of Welsh-ness and more like a mange-ridden dog contorting its hind legs to scratch behind its ears.
‘I think I’ll need to think about it,’ I lied.
Fortunately today we don’t see her. Thus I don’t have to feign an allergy to both henna and badly drawn dragons. When we eventually reach the turning for the beach, I take one step round the corner and stop in my tracks. I have never (and I do mean never) seen so many people packed onto such a small amount of sand in my entire life. It’s like attending a Glastonbury festival dedicated to sea worship. I can barely see the sand amongst the neoprene-wetsuit-clad bodies.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say to My Wife. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing’s “going on”,’ she snaps. ‘This is what summer in England is like.’
With great difficulty we drag our ‘all-terrain urban child travel system’ (aka a pushchair) across the sand.
‘They lied,’ I say to My Wife as once again the pushchair (minus child now being carried by its mother) became stuck in a deep furrow of sand of its own making. ‘It’s not all-terrain at all.’
‘I expect when they called it that they weren’t expecting many bedouins to be testing out their claims,’ replies My Wife.
‘But it says “all-terrain”,’ I say, reading the fancy lettering on the pushchair’s chunky tyres. ‘Surely “all-terrain” should mean just that – “all-terrain”? Surely if they didn’t mean “all-terrain” they should have been legally obliged to call it “some-terrain”, or at the very least “all-terrain-apart-from-sand-terrain”, because “all-terrain” by my way of thinking should include sand. Don’t you think?’
I don’t get a reply from My Wife because she has grown tired of my ceaseless moaning and has upped her pace considerably. My Wife and The Kid are now mere pinpricks in the distance. By the time I catch up with them they have managed to locate the only patch of sand for miles that hasn’t already been colonised. The space is sandwiched between a middle-aged couple and their three teenage boys, a young couple and their two young daughters, and two teenage boys who appeared to be unsupervised. All of the people surrounding us have two things in common: the now seemingly ubiquitous wetsuits, and strange colourful tent-like constructions. I looked around me and noticed for the first time that of the quarter of a million people on the beach we are the only ones without a beach tent.
‘Did we miss the memo?’ I ask My Wife as we settle ourselves down on our suddenly outdated beach towels. ‘When did it become obligatory to surf and camp at the same time? Did they have these things when you used to go on holiday?’
‘No,’ says My Wife looking up at the scorching sun, ‘but they seem like a good idea.’ She pauses, not looking at me. I know what this pause means. It means one of us is going to have to return to civilisation and purchase one of the aforementioned beach tents. And that one of us is going to be me.
‘Shall I take the all-terrain pushchair with me just in case it’s too heavy?’ I ask.
My Wife doesn’t reply. She just sighs and smiles at the same time – a seemingly impossible action she has perfected in the time we’ve been together – and so I kiss her and The Kid goodbye and utter the famous last words, ‘I may be some time.’ I must make for a pitiful sight because I’ve only travelled a few steps when My Wife calls after me, ‘Hold on, we’re coming too.’
Though we buy the beach tent, we’ve lost our enthusiasm for the beach, and so we spend the rest of the day in the park followed by an afternoon by the hotel pool.
DAY 4 – TUESDAY
Today we’re going exploring. It’s not enough to sit on a beach and stare at the same sea we stared at the day before. We need to sit on a different beach and stare at a different sea. To this end we have decided to go to nearby Ilfracombe for the day. We imagine that as Ilfracombe sounds an awful lot like Woolacombe they will be pretty much the same. In fact, such is my imagination that as we begin driving towards our destination in the pouring rain, I am hoping that Ilfracombe is so much better than Woolacombe that it has its own weather system. ‘Due to freak atmospheric conditions,’ reads my imaginary guide to north Devon, ‘Ilfracombe has an unusually warm climate similar to what one might find on the French Riviera. In fact, locals often refer to it as “the English Monte Carlo”.’ As we pull up in Ilfracombe town car park – a car park so steep that small goats were unable to keep their footing and were tumbling down the hill past us – it occurs to me that my ever hopeful imagination is in for yet another kicking. Locals are about as likely to refer to their town as ‘the English Monte Carlo’ as Milton Keynes is likely to refer to itself as ‘the new Provence’. I have never in my life been to such a depressingly grey town. It’s not just the rain either. The grey actually feels like it’s in the air. Descending the heights of Ilfracombe car park without the aid of a Sherpa, the three of us head through the town centre towards the seafront, reasoning that that might be where the action is because it certainly isn’t here. Ilfracombe town centre appears to have been frozen in time somewhere around 1953. Not only were there charity shops for causes long since forgotten (Palsy Research anyone?) but some of the items they sold were so of their time that no amount of ironic fashion sense could have saved them.
‘Look at this!’ exclaimed My Wife, pointing to a cushion with a startlingly vivid colour picture of a kitten on it. ‘It’s hideous.’
Everyone in the charity shop (‘Collecting money for the League Against Black Death since 1512’) turned and stared at us intently so we swiftly made our exit.
With the shop behind us we made our way to Ilfracombe harbour and were pleasantly surprised by how picturesque it was compared to the rest of the town. On one side of the harbour there were fishing boats bobbing up and down, barnacle-encrusted ropes dangling into the water and all of it set against the magnificent backdrop of the granite rock face of the upper part of the town. On the other side were yet more boats, a party of school children being taught to canoe and, of course, the open sea. Hoping that the harbour was setting the standard for the rest of Ilfracombe, we headed towards the seafront.
The first sign that we were back to the Ilfracombe of 1953 was the ancient merry-go-round that looked like it had dropped straight out of a Scooby Doo cartoon. The second sign was the seafront itself. It looked tired. It looked exhausted. It looked like it needed putting out of its misery. The third sign was that Pam Ayres was supposed to be playing at the town’s theatre soon.
‘This is why Woolacombe’s gone surfing crazy,’ says My Wife as we sit down to eat our packed lunch on the benches overlooking the kind of seascape that wouldn’t have looked out of place in The Perfect Storm.
‘I suppose,’ I reply, looking at The Kid who, like My Wife, is surveying the row of pound shops, chip shops and general tat shops behind us sadly. I suddenly felt sorry for Ilfracombe, as if it were a Cinderella that had never been taken to the ball. ‘All it needs is a bit of love and attention,’ I say as it begins to rain harder, ‘and it wouldn’t seem half as bad.’
‘Hmm,’ says My Wife, chewing on a cheese and pickle sandwich. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Maybe it’s nicer in the sunshine,’ I say hopefully.
She doesn’t reply, which in My Wife’s non-verbal lexicon means let’s agree to disagree.
DAY 5 – WEDNESDAY
‘What do you want to do today?’ asks My Wife as I study the A-Z of Devon and C
ornwall.
‘I want to go here,’ I say, pointing to the map.
Intrigued, My Wife and The Kid approach me hoping that I’m pointing to somewhere that has proper shops and a fresh supply of Sun Maid raisins.
‘Padstow?’ says My Wife.
‘Yeah,’ I reply.
‘Why?’
I think for a moment. ‘Because I’ve heard of it so it must be good.’
My Wife takes the map from me. ‘It’s miles away,’ she says. ‘We wouldn’t get there until midday.’
I look at the map again, following the A39 from Bideford on page twenty-seven through to Padstow on page eighteen. She’s right. It is miles away.
‘How about Bude?’ she says.
‘I’ve never heard of Bude,’ I tell her.
‘It’s on the way to Padstow,’ she replies, pointing to page seventeen.
‘What’s there?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know,’ she replies.
‘Fair enough,’ I say cheerfully. ‘Let’s go to Bude.’
It strikes me, as once again we load up the car with provisions and our sole child, that a lot of the decisions My Wife and I make in life are like the one we’ve just made about Bude. There’s a beautiful sort of randomness about the way we go about things that I find quite heartwarming. We’re going to Bude. But we don’t really know why we’re going to Bude, apart from the fact that it’s closer to where we are now than Padstow. And even though we know that being on the way to Padstow doesn’t necessarily mean that Bude will have any similarity to it (see Ilfracombe), somehow it all makes sense.
It’s soon clear that driving to Padstow and back again in a day would’ve been sheer madness because Bude is miles away. We don’t actually arrive there until after midday, by which time The Kid is so hungry she’s started gnawing on her own fists. We follow the main road into the town and then follow signs out the other side pointing us in the direction of Crooklets beach. Soon we find ourselves in a large car park overlooking a grassy bank that’s home to an alternative makeshift car park that is fifty pence cheaper if you stay the entire day. It’s raining again and the sky has turned slate grey. And The Kid is screaming at the top of her lungs to let us know that she’s ravenous. I feel depressed. My Wife dashes out of the car to the boot to get The Kid’s lunch and gets soaked in the process. While our child inhales her sandwiches, My Wife and I sit in silence watching the windscreen steam up.
The rain stops some ten minutes later and so, with The Kid now sated, we decide to get out of the car. As we clamber out onto the damp tarmac we can hear the sound of crashing waves, though we can’t see the sea. A few moments later and we’re there. Crooklets beach is nothing like Woolacombe Sands. To my mind it seems more raw. More natural. Probably more suited to moments of reflection in a cagoule than ball games in neoprene wetsuits. There are a handful of holidaymakers on the beach. People who must have remained on the sand through the rain. I can’t help but admire the spirit of a person who defies British weather so wilfully. I can imagine them railing to the skies with clenched fists held aloft, ‘We’ll have fun on the beach no matter what you throw at us!’ My Wife and I, however, are not this sort of people. We’re warm-cups-of-tea-and-poloneck-jumper people. Plus we both wear glasses and for us rain is our kryptonite. The beach today definitely wouldn’t work for us. Plus The Kid – who usually races everywhere like a demented greyhound – decides that her legs are no longer working and insists that we carry her. The only plan we’d had was to do what we’d have done if we’d stayed in Woolacombe: sit on the beach in our brand-new beach tent and convince ourselves that we were having less fun than everyone else.
‘What shall we do now?’ asks My Wife, buckling under the weight of our child.
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ I say, taking charge.
And we do just that. Taking it in turns to carry The Kid, we follow the coastal path to nearby Summerleaze beach. As we walk and talk, we take in the bracing sea air and drink in the views. Even though it’s August it feels like November but this enhances our walk rather than detracts from it. We wouldn’t be caught dead walking on an English beach in real November for fear of freezing to death. This way we get to imagine what it might be like, get the healthy outdoor glow we often envy in ramblers, while never actually risking frostbite.
DAY 6 – THURSDAY
Not only is today the final full day of our holiday. Not only are we not travelling anywhere. More importantly than any of these facts: today, the sun is back. The mini-winter is over. It’s officially summer again.
‘Look at that,’ I say to My Wife, pointing to the sky. ‘It’s the sun.’
‘Hmm,’ says My Wife, who is making The Kid breakfast.
‘I think we should spend the whole day today on the beach,’ I continue. ‘We should take books and magazines to read, a small picnic to cover lunchtime and those times when you just feel peckish and . . .’ At this point I pause to focus my attention on my daughter, who is for reasons known only to herself currently licking the TV screen. ‘And you can make a sandcastle.’
The Kid stares at me for a few moments as though she finds me mildly amusing and then returns to licking the TV.
‘Sandcastles,’ I repeat.
‘Mmmm,’ she says kissing the TV. ‘Mmmm.’
I must admit I am somewhat obsessed with sandcastles. But in a good way. To me the sandcastle is the perfect symbol of a happy childhood. What is after all a childhood without sandcastles? A something-hood, yes. But a childhood? No. Children need sandcastles. And there’s no way that I’m going to be responsible for my only child appearing on Trisha one day as an adult to tell the story of how she always felt there was something missing from her life. She will have her sandcastle. And she will like it. Today, I tell myself, no matter what happens, we shall make it to the beach and stay there all day.
The first problem we have to overcome on reaching the beach is the fact that The Kid has an acute fear of sand. Despite having spent ten minutes on Monday sitting on a beach towel, My Wife and I hadn’t noticed that The Kid hadn’t set foot on a grain of sand the whole holiday. It’s only now, having found our own square metre of beach on which to set up camp, that we realise that The Kid is so scared of sand that she’s standing on one leg on tiptoe with a look of complete terror on her face. It appears to be a similar phobia to the acute fear of grass she had a while ago, which she only conquered when we left her in the middle of our lawn and ran away. (My Wife has convinced me that we’ll be paying through the nose for therapy for her over this incident for the rest of our lives.)
‘She hates the sand,’ says My Wife.
‘Mmmm,’ says The Kid, still standing on one leg.
‘How can anyone hate the sand?’ I ask, bending down to rescue her. I take her in my arms and sit down in the beach tent. Then I pick up a handful of sand to show her. ‘Look,’ I tell her as the sand runs through my fingers. ‘It’s fun.’
‘No,’ she says firmly, which word has the accolade of being not only the first one she ever learned but also the only one she ever uses. ‘No.’
‘But it’s just—’
‘No.’
‘But it’s just—’
‘No.’
‘But it’s just—’
‘No.’
‘But it’s just—’
‘No.’
‘But it’s just—’
‘No.’
At this point in the battle of wills My Wife steps in. ‘You have to show her that it’s fun,’ she explains slowly. ‘Then she’ll come round to it.’
‘Fun?’ I say. ‘I can do fun.’
And so I take out the bucket and spade and begin digging deep into the surrounding sand to get the moist stuff that is perfect for castle-making. Within seconds The Kid is peering over my shoulder, intrigued. I offer her a go with the spade.
‘No,’ she says once again, but still she stares.
I fill the bucket with sand and then pat the contents firmly in. The Kid grabs my arm to get a
better look at the patting. She smiles. I can see that she likes the patting but she still seems wary. I take the sand-filled bucket and turn it upside down. Two sharp taps on the base and then I slowly pull the bucket up, revealing the first sandcastle I’ve made in sixteen years. It’s hard to say which of us is more overjoyed. We sit and stare in wonder, my daughter and I, at this magnificent creation, and in that moment everything crystallises. This is what holidays in England are about. This is why people like to be beside the seaside, beside the sea. It’s all about sandcastles.
JOURNEY TO THE SEA
LIBBY PURVES
‘THERE’S NO REASON,’ said the doctor carefully, ‘that you shouldn’t stay as active as possible.’
No reason? said the high, furious voice inside Julia’s head. No reason? A death sentence, isn’t that a reason? Aloud, though, she said nothing. She had never made scenes, and despised women who did. The doctor, who was sandy-haired and a little pudgy, shifted uneasily in his chair, so that she realised how young he was; she felt a flash of pity for him and resolved to say something. But before the silence could deepen he recovered his poise and went on, his voice professionally kind and level.
‘Walking is good. Probably not cycling, as you might find your balance a bit affected by the medication. But swimming – swimming is good. In a lifeguarded pool, obviously. The faintness, otherwise . . .’ He tailed off, numbed by her silence.
‘Swimming,’ repeated Julia. She found she now had a surprising desire to help the poor boy, and gave a sudden radiant smile that startled rather than reassured him. ‘Yes, I live just across from the leisure centre. Never been in there. Haven’t swum for years. But I see them coming out with towels.’
‘There!’ said the doctor, almost as relieved as if he had offered her a certain cure. ‘That might do you very well. The medication has a much better chance if you’re active. Keep the – er – blood flowing.’