172. Summer's end
Starting September with a trip to the beach.
In which Rebecca rockadoodles on a high-flying microadventure.
Dear Reader,
We’d camped at one of our favourite spots last Saturday night: a lovely pitch between the fig tree and the wildflower meadow at my parents’ house. It had been a lovely start to the weekend, and although the weather had turned cool and wet we’d been cosy inside as we’d shared a meal and watched a film1 together.
As he stirred from his sleeping bag on Sunday morning, sliding open the curtains in the van to welcome an early sunbeam, Jim asked me if I wanted to go camping.
‘Eh? We are camping. We’re camping right now, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ I was confused.
‘No, I mean, do you want to camp again tonight? It’s already a gorgeous day, the forecast says it’s going to be 30 degrees, and we haven’t slept at the seaside yet this year.’
Before I knew it, a pitch had been booked at Normans’ Bay campsite, right by the beach where in 1066 the Normans had landed in order to tackle King Harold’s army of Saxons at Hastings, just along the coast.2
Having got through the first eight months of 2024 without having once pulled on a pair of shorts, this was the day to do so. Wet and windy September weather was already sweeping the south-west of the country, but here in our south-east corner we had bright sunshine and temperatures in the low thirties (80°F plus). I’d forgotten that at the seaside we would feel considerably cooler, but despite this I congratulated myself for sticking with my summer-smug shorts.
Our neighbours at the pitch across the way were delightful: a young couple with a baby and a little girl who were spending the last weekend of the summer holidays together with the children’s grandparents. The girl’s rainbow kite whirled and whirled above her as she ran back and forth holding onto the string. Reader, this was lovely. I even remembered being her.
Jim and I set up camp, unfolding our chairs, popping up the van’s roof, discussing whether to have a cup of tea (yes, right now please) or an ice cream (also yes, but later). We were suddenly distracted as a shrill cry went up, followed by sobs.
I looked across to our neighbours. The little girl was crying – whatever had happened? I could see the kite still flying in the strong and steady wind – so it couldn’t be anything to do with that. 🤔
But Reader, it was. With my eyes I traced a line down from the skyborne kite, following the string all the way to the ground. Well, not to the ground exactly, but to a thorn bush in the hedge the other side of the creek, right by the railway line. The little girl had let go of the kite string’s red plastic handle, and now it was stuck fast, anchoring the kite in a place that was out of reach, inaccessible, lost.
‘It’s still flying, though, look!’ said the grandma. ‘What do you think, Grandad?’
The grey-haired man in shorts and sunhat thought for a moment. ‘I expect it’ll still be up there when we come back next summer!’ He looked at his young charge. Tears were still rolling.
‘I bet it’s the highest kite in the world!’ he told her. ‘Even without you holding the string!’ The little girl brightened. ‘Let’s see if we can get you another one.’
All was well. 😊
After our cuppa – and yes, ice cream, for we’d been unable to resist for very long the selection at the campsite shop – Jim and I walked to the beach. Even in a couple of hundred yards the difference in temperature surprised us: what had in the grassy shelter of the campsite felt like a stiff breeze was now a strong wind straight off the sea and onto our faces.
We made our way down the beach to below the high-tide mark, and, water ebbing, watched as wet sand was slowly exposed beyond the shingle.
Back up the beach again I dug my sketchbook out of my rucksack, and, using a waterbrush and my water-soluble Neocolor II crayons as paint, began to make wet marks in pebbly colours.
‘What are you up to?’ asked Jim.
‘Just getting down an impression, really. I’m doodling some rocks. Rockadoodling!’
😄😄😄
My bare legs were suddenly shivering, and the tin of crayons fell from my unsteady lap onto the beach. ‘Great.’ 🙄
They were lying in grit and sand, and I would have to clean them before putting them away. I ignored them for now and picked up my pencil instead, drawing pebbly outlines into my patches of watery colour, gripping my pencil in deliberately uncomfortable fashion so that my marks – like the shapes of the stones themselves – would be unpredictable.
No wonder I was getting cold – it’s September, and the light fades so much sooner. The hot day had given way to a cool evening, and the sun was already dipping low as we made our way back up the beach.
Back at our pitch we were treated to this:
I looked across the creek to where the kite had been flying. The sky was empty, and although the kite itself was invisible, its string now sagging over the hedge beyond the water showed that it had finally drifted to earth.
Well, it’s September – the end of summer. Even kites aren’t flying now.
Love,
Rebecca
📚 Reading 📚
📚 The wonderful
of creates the most gorgeous art, and she and her colourful ‘Doodlebug’ characters popped into my head while I was making my ‘Rockadoodles’.Reader, you will love them.
📚 Regular readers of ‘Dear Reader, I’m Lost' will be no strangers to my ongoing light-hearted correspondence with fellow Brit Terry Freedman of Eclecticism: Reflections on literature, writing and life. It’s his turn to reply to me next Wednesday!
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Mrs Harris goes to Paris – highly recommended!
I can’t see that title without thinking of the John Prine song of the same name … may not be your cup of tea, and he’s near the end of his life when he records it, but it’s a sweet bit of songwriting
A multi-sensory banquet here this morning, Rebecca -- the breath of wind, the grit under the feet, the taste of ice cream, the vision of the sunset, the sound of the waves and the children. You set us right down in the damp sand to enjoy the last tiny bit of summer. Thank you. And what a clever way to create art -- lay down the color and then with a pencil, decide what it is. I never thought of that.