17 June 2006
After the silvery serenity of the Front Beach, we decided to brave ... the Back Beach. [Insert da na na na music here].
[This is a magical place in summer, complete with a cave full of octopus money (periwinkle doors) that the children collect for trading. In winter it's equally entrancing, but it does make your ears ache and your extremities numb. In addition, the noise of the surf and wind is deafening.]
The menfolk strode purposefully, blissfully unaware they were being photodocumented. Our friend here with Mr Soup is a professional photographer so I always feel a little intimidated when I take my humble camera out, particularly as it's a little wonky looking since I dropped it on our brick floor. (It lay on the floor beeping helplessly and continuously for some time as I gaped in frozen horror, then after a half hour of rest, while I went into strenuous denial, it valiantly recovered and is as good as new. Avec dents.)
Oh yes, the beach.
The children did that thing that children do. Tried to defeat nature.
Threatening waves with sticks doesn't work.
Neither does bowing.
There was nothing for it ... but surrender.
Did I mention it was about 2 degrees?
Remembering the northern Europeans who plunge naked into the snow clutching only a birch twig for protection, I tried to ignore the ramifications of letting my children frolick in the icy surf. And concentrated on the wonders of nature around me.
After dutifully photographing my surroundings for my sweet Internets, I decided enough was enough.
Luckily, Hansel and Gretel-like, Son #3 had laid a feather trail so we could find our way ...
... back home. Just in time for a nice cup of tea and a little light reading.
See those 1960s curtains? I want to steal them and turn them into a skirt.