Saturday, June 09, 2007

Fretting again

Sunshine licked my window pane, I thought: "The beach! The boys!" But the beach had other plans. Fretful fingers crawled out from the sea into my yesterday, across the sand, reaching for the marram grass to pull themselves, safe, on to land. Cloud curtained the castle as if a wild-eyed illusionist had swirled a gold silk lined cape and said: "Voila! Join me after the advertisement and I shall make the Eiffel Tower disappear and reappear in this snow globe." Close-up of an empty snow-globe.

Sandy families havered, hovering behind their turquoise plastic windbreaks as foggy walls walked across the beach to join them at their picnicking. Go; they moved whole. Stay; they watched their legs painted out in a white wash. I looked for the Lord or a long since gone loved one to come through the mist and smile at me, hold out a hand and with the other, gesture to the fog. I thought: "Am I dead? Is this how death will be? A swirling knee high mist and clammy chill? A feeling, somehow, somewhere, the day went astray?" I could not see the robed Lord; decided the departed could wait a while more.I gathered up wet suited boys, tight tethering me to this world, reached for their hands instead, and said: "Let's go home."

13 comments:

laurie said...

for some reason, i feel suddenly cold and clammy when i read this. even though it's sunny and 80 degrees here.

Crystal Jigsaw said...

..and I was going to take Amy to the rockpools today, might stay in and make muffins instead.

mutterings and meanderings said...

You should've gone earlier - we were on the beach with the horses and it was fine then.

sunshine said...

Your post really puts us, shivering, on the beach!

Isn't life so much a matter of expectations. If you go to the beach expecting warmth from a welcoming sun and heated sand, and get slapped with a clammy fog, it's so disappointing!

If you go alone or with a lover, equipped with polar fleece jackets, a quilt, and a thermos of mulled red wine, being wrapped in a soft cool fog is delicious!

If only we could see around corners--

Norman said...

That is the down side of the North-East coast. If the wind is blowing in from the east then sea fret hits even when the rest of old Blighty is basking in conditions more akin to the Mediterranean.
Intersting point about this sea fret thing,its usually most prominent at this time of year when the wind is coming all the way from Norway. Strange how the Vikings always chose this time of year to raid Lindisfarne and other such places. Just a thought.

mutleythedog said...

Didn't you notice an energetic little white dog running about without any concerns??? Bet you did...

jane said...

That fretting mist has now reached Birmingham. I went to hang washing out at 7 a.m., still in nightie, and there were swirling mists (or was it smog?).

Re Norman's post: I was a little concerned that this mist may have forewarned of visiting Vikings, but no sign of any pillaging apart from the local yobs who've kicked next door's fence in.

debio said...

There is nowhere more miserable in this world than a cold, foggy beach. Little wonder you thought that death might have come to greet you...

I Beatrice said...

I'll think of your chilly grey beach, much as I might think of an oasis - when full summer comes, and I'm dying in the heat of London!

Dee said...

I'm with you Beatrice. Wish I lived near a beach like that.
Beautiful post WITN, thank you.

FunkyMunky said...

I spent many an hour on the beach at Whitley Bay as a kid. We had relatives there (they've since moved to Yorkshire, which I still haven't quite forgiven them for - not that there's anything wrong with Yorkshire!)
It was always colder there come to think of it, but I suppose when you're young, you just don't notice it so much!

Wisewebwoman said...

WITN:
And I was swept away with your use of words, with the swirling smoke of the lovely words.

I'm a fog-fan. Love it. Love its tumbles and soft twists. Love the bleat of the foghorn.

Not on a beach though.

WWW

Sandra Montgomery said...

I love the swirling mist of a foggy beach. Takes me back to summer holiday mornings in Oregon. But there was always the promise of the heat of the late morning sun to burn it off and bring out the sunbathers and the kite flyers.

I miss the beach.