Now I’m older, my boys go to the beach at Eastbourne with my parents and throw stones, go crabbing and dig things up. And my sister has a wonderful holiday home in Bembridge on the Isle of Wight, which has the most idylic beaches with cafes and pubs to match. We all congregate there whenever we can, spending wind swept afternoons on the front at Ventnor and then snuggly evenings in front of the fire warming up and drying off.
I am wooed by the smell of hot doughnuts you can buy at the entrance to the pier and the lurid Eastbourne rock that looks like its been in the shop window since I was a child. I love how you can taste the salt on your mouth, after a blowy stroll along the prom. I love the old fashioned charm of it all and how the sand, stones and seaweed appeal to young and old alike.
We have, of course, over the years been lured abroad for holidays. But even then these breaks incorporate *foreign* seaside. It has different smells and no drizzle, but the concept is still the same. Sea, buckets, spades and crabbing for the children, toes buried in the sand, drink in hand, for the adults.
A friend bought me this picture, and it makes me smile on a daily basis.
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