Girl1 is in her element. She is surrounded by friends, learning and having fun. She is in a beautiful place, and isn’t even bothered by the steady drip from the skies (she’s been well prepared by time in the caravan).
I worked hard at being a grown up and didn’t do the full on octopus; I’m saving that til she gets home. Instead I did gentle hugs, arm over shoulder, head kisses, arm and hand squeezes. The poor child had to go play in the sea to escape. It’s a wonder Spurs Fan got near her at all.
We did a beach and lunch, and then another beach, a graveyard, icecream and back for play practice.
This bleak and beautiful spot, right on the edge of Europe, is where a set of great grandparents, great aunts and great uncles and great amounts of relations I’ve never known, rest their weary bones. It’s filled with tight rows of the dead of the parish, for generations.
And right there, between the gaelic pitch, the golf course and the beach, along the wall, lie some unknown dead, not of the parish. Soldiers and seamen whose wartime work killed them and brought them here.
Men who, whether they left from Schleswig or Southampton, are unlikely to have imagined ending up amongst our ones.