There's a beach near the bots' school where we have gone since they were small enough for me to see the tops of their heads or be in a room with them for more than eight seconds without their lips curling involuntarily and the klaxon in their brains shriek 'NOT LISTENING.'
I bought a painting of it last year at a local art fair; the artist told me how her life had cracked open and she and come here to start afresh. This was the first view she had of her new home. The painting shimmers and she told me her jeweller friend had given her a bag of diamond dust that she'd mixed into the paint she used for the sea.
It's a perfect bowl of changing sky; beige sand and curving banks of navy blue shingle, huge oyster and mussel shells crunching underfoot. When the tide goes out you can walk for miles on cool watery ridges.
The promenade is Victorian, offering careful pleasure in swan-shaped boats and swathes of stern forest-green bathing huts. They cost as much as houses in the North.
On this beach, the bots have thrown off little stripy uniforms, free from the exhausting strictures of clapping and finger-painting and shot, chubby-thighed and squealing, into the sparkling sea.
They have played cricket here, had class barbecues, sand-sculpture competitions. I'm sure they will also come here, furtively and tentatively believing they are the first generation to thrill to booze-fuelled disobedience and all the fun that brings.
They snorted in that teenage way when I told them that there was diamond dust in the painting and said I'd been ripped off and was a mug for a fairy tale.
I drove them in to do huge exams this week and went down to the beach with the dog. She squealed excitedly, remembering the time before the cool detachment of the school bus when we came down every morning after drop-off and knew all the dogs.
I let her out in the bright early sunshine and she disappeared off across the flats, running up excitedly to friends old and new, sniffing them just to make sure. I followed with a genteel tea and fistful of poo bags and looked at the spangled, glittering sea.
There's diamond dust there alright.
I want to see your picture, (the diamond-dusted one). I thought your photo was it, but although it comes pretty close, I doubt it. Ah, the age of innocence - booze-filled disobedience - the constant game of control and then letting your hair down with chums, (or better still, complete strangers); probably just as well I don't have children, although now that some of them are old enough, my nephews and Godchildren seem to appreciate my curmudgeonly ways, tempered as they are with respect for them as people.
ReplyDeleteor indeed lack of control.. The photo is that beach, sparkly sea and all. I bet you're sparkly under the curmudgeonly robes and you're right, respect is the most important thing you can show a child.
DeleteOne must believe.....it must be a glorious piece of heaven on earth.
ReplyDeletexoxo
Karena
The Arts by Karena
It's beautiful, especially in the winter.
DeleteAh they grow up and the sparkle comes in other ways. At least that's my response - a lovely piece about a beach and all I can feel is wistful for baby flesh:).
ReplyDeleteMe too, those dimply limbs of yesteryear, in this case smelling of sunscreen and dripped with sticky ice-cream.
DeleteYou paint a lovely picture with your words. I can see it all.
ReplyDeleteSwan - Now Living in France dot com
Thank you Swan -nice to see you back!
DeleteNice to be back and thanks for noticing. Still strugling with the technicalities of internet communications but hopefully getting there with some help. Meanwhile I am looking for more followers and comments. I get lovely comments privately but not on the site, hmmmmmmmmm.
DeleteSwan
What a lovely beach you've described. I remember walking on the sand dunes of Greatstone when I'd visit my relatives, and along the flats when the tide was out. I recall my fascination with the specks of silver in the sand. At night, the water would glow with bits of shiny stuff. We joked that it must be the radiation from the nearby power stations in Dungeness.
ReplyDeleteThat's a really atmospheric part of the world, I think. Did you ever see Derek Jarman's garden there?
DeleteHello ELS,
DeleteAtmospheric would be a good word to describe it, yes. Alas, I've not seen Mr. Jarman's little house or garden. Many years ago he gave my aunt and uncle one of his distinctive paintings as a token of thanks for all the meals they cooked him at their restaurant along the sea front in Greatstone. After his death, you can imagine all of the interest in the painting. It was eventually loaned out and formed part of an important exhibit of his work.
There is nothing better than a pup let out for a romp. God, they love it.
ReplyDeleteSo do us ancient dogs! Creaky but still happy to sniff an old chum...
ReplyDelete