We’re all at it. Across the northern hemisphere, bloggy buddies are stocking up on seaside time. Schools are reopening; we’re thinking about buying sturdy shoes. Lights are going on earlier, teenagers are getting exam results and packing for the move away from home. Autumn is becoming visible, but we’re holding on tight to the dreams of summer.
Tinman and Emma are going swimming, each with clothing dilemmas. Debra is looking at surf and sunsets, Lynda found herself again, e.e. cummings style. The regular reader knows I need no excuse to burble on about the restorative power of beaches, so, in a radical move, I’ll hush.
Oh, how I love a beach.
In my mind, all beaches should look like this…
They don’t; and that one is a bit too far away for me to spend as much time there as I’d like. So I make do. A grey, stony, east coast beach still has wind and space and sea. Enough emptiness to clear the head.
At this seaside town I always call in for a potter round the old style department store. Here I could buy (and so can you when you come to visit) kilt pins, doilies, enormous undergarments, fancy bedlinen, antimacassars, mother of the bride outfits. Together we can admire the artfully arranged display of dusters in shades of yellow. We can get advice on coordinating our cushions and carpet with the living room suite. So much in one main street shop.
While our car load were belatedly tearing up the soft play place last week, I discovered the men’s department. Turns out that’s the place to go when you need a new bowler hat.
Seaside towns; so much more than the beach.