85. Too many treasures
And a tiny girl with a lot to carry.
Dear Reader,
‘If you want it, you carry it’ was the rule on every expedition we went on when I was growing up, and I hear it ringing in my ears every time I am tempted to pick up another pretty stone from the beach.
In fact, that rule is why I stopped picking up stones.
At local beauty spot Cuckmere Haven we’d find smooth Sussex flints with beautiful highlights of quartz, every one of them a treasure.
Reader, I knew better than to plunder the beach of stones which I knew belonged to it, not to me, but as I tramped over the Cuckmere shingle on one of our family walks, my nine-year-old self had found the temptation overwhelming. I gathered stone after glittering stone, each one prettier than the last. Was there no end to these treasures?
Before long I had emptied my rucksack of the warm layers it had contained, and with the unwanted clothing now tied around my waist and neck I found room to accommodate my collection of finds.
‘Come on!’ The others were already at the edge of the beach, about to follow the long path back to where we’d parked the car.
I staggered towards them.
‘Wait a sec!’ I gasped. Already exhausted, I crouched down next to the wooden post marking the edge of the beach, and slowly but inevitably toppled backwards onto my rucksack.
Like a tortoise that has landed on its shell, I found my feet were waving helplessly in the air. This topsy-turvy treasure seeker had clearly overestimated her capacity for carrying things.
‘What are you going to do now?’ my parents asked me gently. ‘Remember, if you want them, you’re going to have to carry them.’
Reader, I left all but one of those beautiful stones behind. And actually, that was the right thing to do, to not strip the beach of its geological goodies: those belonged there for others to enjoy in their natural environment.
That said, I haven’t ever shrunk from the need to carry a heavy load, and I like to think that from a young age I have always pulled my weight.
On a visit to my grandparents’ home in the Lake District when I was three, a decision was made for Grandpa, Dad, my brother and me to walk along the lake path beside Ullswater from Howtown to Glenridding. Mum drove us the fifteen-minute journey from High Side to the boat jetty at Glenridding, where we boarded the Ullswater steamer to Howtown.
Howtown to Glenridding is described as a ‘moderate’ walk of just over six and a half miles, a journey which this website tells me takes four hours.
Trips to see Grandma and Grandpa would always mean a hike up a fell, or a walk down to – or along – the lake, and, as this photograph from April 1978 shows, getting kitted out for such expeditions was exciting.
Taken six months later, the photograph below shows me with Dad and my brother. When I took the picture out of the album I found these words written by hand on the reverse:
October ‘78
‘I see the steamer’
Judging by the too-long sleeves, I’m wearing the same waterproof that I’d worn in April, and my hair – just like now, 45 years later – is all over the place1. The binoculars are enormous against my tiny head, and my rucksack – a different one, its straps too long – is dangling so far down my back that the bottom of it is bashing against the backs of my knees.
Ah yes, my rucksack – well, although it was Grandma’s, it was mine for today, and I was so proud of it. Packing our rations for the trip, Grandma had deliberated hard over what should go into which rucksack. There were sandwiches, flasks of tea, and generous slabs of homemade cherry and almond cake.
‘Now, where should I put this?’ she wondered, holding a two-pint carton of lemon squash she’d prepared as a special treat.
Insistent even then, at still not quite four, I announced that I was going to carry it. I had a rucksack too, I was important, so I got to carry things. Reader, this half-sized happy hiker knew exactly what she wanted, and into my rucksack went the carton.
Along the lake we walked, through dry and reddening autumn bracken that was taller than I was. Looking at these pictures now it looks as if we’d been lucky with the October weather.
Mum was waiting for us at Glenridding, and back at High Side her troupe of tired trekkers put their rucksacks down. ‘What’s all this still doing in here?’ asked Grandma, aghast, as she pulled the untouched two-pint carton of squash from mine. ‘Did Rebecca carry this full bottle all that way?’
Either nobody had told Dad and Grandpa about the heavy drink I was carrying, or they’d forgotten that I had it.
But Reader, I’d wanted to carry it, and I’d carried it. I was happy with that.
Whether it’s at the beach or on a long lakeside walk I’m still happy to carry a rucksack full of expedition provisions, although I know better now than to fill it with rocks. And as a full-sized hiker I have learned that keeping well hydrated on a walk will always pay dividends when it comes to reducing pack weight. 😉
Love,
Rebecca
If you’ve enjoyed reading this post, the seventh in a monthly series exploring some of my memories in words and pictures, please let me know by clicking the heart. Thank you! You’ll find all the posts in this ‘Art & Treasures’ series here.
My next ‘Dear Reader, I’m lost’ post will be published next Saturday.
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This might be why: it looks as if I’ve just taken my red woolly hat off, and I think that’s what Dad’s holding.
Another delightful post. Love the artwork, the photos and, of course, the writing. I agree with " you want it, you carry it", which I believe should apply in other contexts too. I agree, also, with leaving beach rocks etc on the beach, but I still have a rock that my then girlfriend gave me 48 years ago😀
This is a beautiful, reflective, intimate series. I'm such a fan.