Beachcomber

Awaking to a dry day is wonderful. We feel we have been confined to base for 48 hours, and walking down to the beach is liberating. It’s not as if we have no waterproofs, but wet weather walking just does not appeal. So a walk along the shore in dry, spring-like weather is a joy. 

And soon it’s obvious we’re not alone, though on a three-mile stretch of beach, it’s never crowded. 

We come across one father digging a trench in the wet sand which quickly fills with water, forming a stream that flows down to the sea as his two small daughters clap and scream excitedly. Simple pleasures, never forgotten. 

As we come to the rickety wooden jetty at Rhos on Sea, a child walks back along it from the shore, cradling the treasures she has found. I love her outfit - boots, green spotted tights, black skirt with frilly net petticoat, black embellished T-shirt: she has style. I also love the tender concentration on her face. 

At this point, I must adopt a more prosaic tone; G points out the bag she’s carrying is suspiciously like a dog poop bag. It may well be, but surely it’s been commandeered for other purposes?