The magic of a puddle is many times magnified in the pools created by the tide… my first encounter with the transience of life.
In the 1950’s the beach was crowded with holidaymakers, each having marked out their own territory with canvas windbreaks, bags and elaborate sandcastles. My dad used to build a low wall. He spread out a ground sheet, then we arranged our towels over it. No ordinary towels. We each had a beach towel, with a bright, festive pattern. As the tide ebbed everyone would spread out. As it came in we’d have to grab our shoes and clothes before they were swept away. Sometimes we had to retrieve things from the waves.
You can see my bucket is full of pebbles and shells. My brother has a bucket too, but doesn’t seem sure what to do with it. He looks as if he’s just learned to walk. I’m in my element in the water while he’s hunched over it. I’m about to create a garden, my own Eden. I’d arrange, and rearrange, my collection of shells, pebbles and seaweeds into a world fit for any little mermaid. Once, to my amazement, one of my shells got up and walked away. I watched with a mixture of awe and fear.
Rock pools were equally transient, but even more magical. We flirted with danger, walking as near to the waves as we could get, defying the slimy, seaweed covered surfaces to get to the deepest, most mysterious pools where tiny fish swam amid sea anemones, live crabs lurked in crevices and, perhaps the most magical creature of all, the starfish might be found. These were different sizes, and shades of orange or purple. Dead ones on the sand were a thing of wonder, live ones many times more marvellous. We were taught not to touch them, as they’d sting, but at some point someone showed me how to hold them safely.
Where are we in this photo? There’s nothing to distinguish this beach from the others. There’s a pier in the distance. There’s ponies rather than donkeys. It might be Morecambe. This photo predates my love of horses, as I’m immersed in my game and whichever parent is taking the photo.
I’m wearing a splendid swimsuit which my mother made for me. It was red, with tiny, white polka dots. It had a ruched waist and a skirt. Hours of work must have gone into it. Luckily, I was still in the age of innocence. I loved my mother and all her creations. The sea garden too must have been her idea…. something she’d created as a child. Perhaps her father, a dedicated gardener, had taught her. So this scene, so evocative of the 1950’s, is a link in a chain connecting different generations.
here to edit.
In the 1950’s the beach was crowded with holidaymakers, each having marked out their own territory with canvas windbreaks, bags and elaborate sandcastles. My dad used to build a low wall. He spread out a ground sheet, then we arranged our towels over it. No ordinary towels. We each had a beach towel, with a bright, festive pattern. As the tide ebbed everyone would spread out. As it came in we’d have to grab our shoes and clothes before they were swept away. Sometimes we had to retrieve things from the waves.
You can see my bucket is full of pebbles and shells. My brother has a bucket too, but doesn’t seem sure what to do with it. He looks as if he’s just learned to walk. I’m in my element in the water while he’s hunched over it. I’m about to create a garden, my own Eden. I’d arrange, and rearrange, my collection of shells, pebbles and seaweeds into a world fit for any little mermaid. Once, to my amazement, one of my shells got up and walked away. I watched with a mixture of awe and fear.
Rock pools were equally transient, but even more magical. We flirted with danger, walking as near to the waves as we could get, defying the slimy, seaweed covered surfaces to get to the deepest, most mysterious pools where tiny fish swam amid sea anemones, live crabs lurked in crevices and, perhaps the most magical creature of all, the starfish might be found. These were different sizes, and shades of orange or purple. Dead ones on the sand were a thing of wonder, live ones many times more marvellous. We were taught not to touch them, as they’d sting, but at some point someone showed me how to hold them safely.
Where are we in this photo? There’s nothing to distinguish this beach from the others. There’s a pier in the distance. There’s ponies rather than donkeys. It might be Morecambe. This photo predates my love of horses, as I’m immersed in my game and whichever parent is taking the photo.
I’m wearing a splendid swimsuit which my mother made for me. It was red, with tiny, white polka dots. It had a ruched waist and a skirt. Hours of work must have gone into it. Luckily, I was still in the age of innocence. I loved my mother and all her creations. The sea garden too must have been her idea…. something she’d created as a child. Perhaps her father, a dedicated gardener, had taught her. So this scene, so evocative of the 1950’s, is a link in a chain connecting different generations.
here to edit.