Wednesday, 1 December 2010

There was a heatwave that summer. My brother and I spent most days at the beach, with my mother. The heat so intense that that tar buckled, expansion gaps failing. The terrace, with its concrete tile so hot it scorched feet, skin.

Come late September the heat was forgotten, and almost every day were overcast. But still Grandpa would take us to the beach. From the deck we'd watch the surf. Whilst Grandma would cook inside. It often rained,momentarily, and you could taste the salt drifting on the wind. Grandpa would still swim, forced by the current, disappear under the surface and reappear hundreds of feet away, how the pebble would cut shins. And the smell of gas from the stove.

Several small boats were recovered from the mouth of the river that year, and I remember thinking why didn't their owners tie them up? The beach was broken, and by October only one flight of steps gave access to the lower level, the rest they said had be found washed up across the channel. Just like the shingle had been washed over the sea walls. Across the streets.

We never had holidays like that after that year.

1 comment:

abristolnovella said...

perhaps we are talking of the same storm