Wednesday, 15 January 2014

The beach

Living in land-locked Berkshire, having grown up within sight of the sea on the south coast, one thing that's missing from the McBaby's life is the ability to stroll down to the beach and skim stones into the ocean.

Many's the time I've lamented to MrM (who also grew up near the sea, albeit on a completely different coastline) that there's nothing like a sea view, before going on to mentally construct a lifestyle that would permit such a move.

My sister is lucky enough to live in one of the most beautiful parts of the UK and has literally thousands of beaches within driving distance, on which she can surf, build sandcastles or simply walk the dog.

So at the weekend, it was with some disbelief that I found myself leaving the beach 15 minutes after arriving, strapping a sodden and weeping McBaby into the car and shouting "never again!" as I emptied the water out of his boots.

MrM was out "thrashing" (that's 'beating' to most people), and the ladies plus the three boys had driven down to Watergate Bay, with at least one of us hoping for another glimpse of Seth Lakeman, as he'd been surfing there last time we visited.

Small McNephew slept through the visit while the bigger McNephew met two friends and the three of them dug holes in the beach, occasionally splattering us with cold, wet sand.

Meanwhile, the McBaby had his eye on the sea. Not a calm, blue sea, but huge, rolling waves and a tide that could, and did, knock you off your feet, even at ankle height.

So he ran towards it at full pelt. Repeatedly. Every time I thwarted his efforts, he'd scream and wriggle ferociously to get out of my grasp. I tried to hold his hand so he could wade in the sea, but his only desire was to let go of my hand and run into the sea.

We'd attracted a bit of a crowd by this time, so I took my now purple-faced and wet boy back to the car, with my mum trailing behind us, pretending we weren't together.

Living in Berkshire means more than an hour's driving to the sea. On reflection, that's probably the right distance.


In other news, in the time it took me to put a milk bottle in the recycling bin outside, the McBaby had climbed on the kitchen table and thrown six eggs onto the floor one by one. Now that's self-entertainment.

When I put him to bed, I tucked him in with his favourite teddy who received the same treatment as the eggs, only with a look of disdain on his face.


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