Blue sky stretches over the whole weekend and shows no
signs of shrinkage. Some people say it's too hot, they are instantly harangued:
have they forgotten so soon all the weary intolerance of grey skies? Other
people recall The Last Great Summer, 1976: lotus eating and lounging and even
beige was a bright colour back then. We never wore shoes from March to
November, only sand on our feet. We never ate any food except ice pops.
We remember this, lying in the shade at Bluebell
Barns, watching banana tree leaves waft. We all have sunglasses on. Two empty
bottles of dandelion muscatel cast shadows in the kitchen, which we can't see
from this angle but our fuzzy heads hold the image. And the Prosecco bottles,
and the red wine. I'm drinking black coffee, eating lazy breakfast bagels, feet
up on a wicker table, watching those glossy tropical leaves, deciding on a sea
cure.
The beach is cobbled in various sizes of warm stone.
Out we wade, into remarkable clarity, making dream plans to buy the old beach
shop house and grow sea buckthorn for jam and wine.
We will catch fish and I won't wear shoes.
On the table, a gingham cloth and one white candle.
We can make ice pops with elderflower champagne.
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