Well, I did ask for it, and now I most certainly have it. It's hot, damned hot, and frankly, damned hot is a little too hot for a girl like me. I love an English summer, and feel especially fortunate that we live within a Cornetto's toss of the beach; but we don't visit it enough, and when the girls go in the sea, it's usually Easter and invariably bitterly cold. People wrapped against the cold in fleeces and hats used to walk past my little beach urchins, sopping wet in pants and vests, splashing in rock pools and running through the surf, and then look at me as if to say 'what kind of mother lets her children get all cold and wet on such a chilly day?' I do; I let my girls get cold and wet, because they wouldn't do it if they didn't want to, and if you've never seen two little urchins scampering along through salty puddles screaming with delight, then you've never seen pure, unadulterated joy. I sit on a rocky outcrop with my Thermos flask and survey the beach, looking out for pirate treasure, flotsam, and rugged lone males. I usually come home with a bit of old rope, or a nice piece of driftwood, but so far I've never been lucky enough to chat up a handsome stranger. I think I might end up having to hit a stray male over the head with my driftwood, and then I could tie him up with the knotty hemp and wrestle him into the boot of my car. He could become my man Friday, and every other day of the week, and we'd be as happy as clams.

But back to the heat.

At the weekend I once again missed the village fair and spent the day painting gloss on all the long-neglected exterior surfaces of my house. I didn't really see my girls until the evening, and was quite happy in my work. On Sunday, I decided to take them to the beach, seeing as it was almost unbearably hot and we were all desperate for a swim. I adore swimming in the sea. I love it so much I think I must have been a mermaid in a past life. I'm not one for swimming pools, but the sea holds me in its salty thrall, and therefore on Sunday I was more than happy to get into a scorching car for the short journey to the crystal waters of Mothercombe.

Our favourite beach is privately owned and is only open on certain days of the week. The local aristos who own it live in the most stunning Queen Anne house, girded by chocolate box thatched estate workers cottages. Every time we pass the entrance gates I wonder what it must be like to live in such a house, surrounded by some of the most breathtakingly beautiful scenery in the country. And then we get to the beach car park and I look at the £3.00 entrance fee and think, 'Greedy bastards, don't they know we're local? Don't they have enough already?

I resent all the people who aren't local; I begrudge them their visit to our beach, and when we get stuck behind a slow family on the long climb down to the cove, I feel the heat and the resentment beginning to curdle my whipped cream gaiety.

The family in front of us are irritating for a number of reasons other than their snail-like pace. The husband has a beard, and is wearing shiny, black Oxford brogues. His feet slip on the rocks, polished smooth by countless frayed flip-flops, and he looks uncomfortable, snapping at his wife and trying to keep a purchase in his ridiculous footwear. His wife is wearing a sensible Doctor Scholl, but is having trouble with her balance, and holds her hands aloft like an overweight fairy tiptoeing past a huge, sleeping ogre that she's keen not to waken. I want to push past the three of them, but I have to bite my tongue and stay a few paces behind. Eventually, the inevitable happens. One of them slips, but sadly it's not the man in his silly shoes, but his daughter, who then refuses to take another step and stands sobbing by the stinging nettles. We move past the group and I wonder what the man has beneath his trousers. Will he take off his clothes to reveal an Edwardian bathing costume, or will he be sporting a pair of elderly Speedos, tight in all the wrong places, elastic frayed just like his patience? I don't wait around to find out.

We get down to the beach, find our spot, erect our little tenty shelter and head for the surf. The sea is so cold that it takes the breath out of us like the suck of a bellows, creeping inextricably upwards as we advance. Numbed and gasping we walk out until we can walk no more, and I launch myself into the surf. I know I can leave my girls without fear of them drowning. Alice won't go far and is happily splashing on her boogie board, and Rosie is stood knee deep, refusing to go deeper until I come and get her. But she'll have a long wait because I'm swimming now and I'm in my element. The sea is warmer the farther out I go, I swim past the teenagers playing ball and get out on my own. Out on my own, out of my depth, free of gravity, free of care. I can lose myself in the sea, it's clear and refreshing and as I swim I can completely lose track of time. But not for long. Alice and Rosie are soon calling to me, and my motherly concerns take over my mermaid longings. The girls want their lunch and I want to lie in the sun, and feel the warm rays sucking the salty wetness from me and lulling me into slumber.

Alice and Rosie eat their salad rolls, have their crisps and lie down beside me in the shade of our shelter. I think we might all drift off together, the heat and the sound of a hundred disparate voices are growing fainter, it's going to be a lovely, lazy Sunday afternoon. Minutes pass, and then Rosie pipes up with her familiar question; the question which necessitates a response other than the one that I'd really like to give.

'How long do we have to stay here? ' Those words snap me out of my somnolent torpor. I have to give her a time now. Shall I say one hour? If I say an hour I know she'll ask me the same question at five minute intervals until my patience snaps. I want to snooze, to drift, to dream. I want to blank out the wearisome child next to us with the whiney voice and the neglectful mother, and spend my Sunday afternoon doing nothing very much at all. But I can't. There was a time when my girls would have run off with a bucket and spade and amused themselves, but it's simply too hot for messing about with sandcastles and they want to be in the leafy shade of our garden. So I say fifteen minutes, and after ten they get dressed and start walking back up the rocky path to our car. I am left, as always, to carry all the towels, the crusts in the Tupperware and the tenty shelter. I follow on, looking back at the glittering surf, leaving behind me an indent in the sand and a space for another family to enjoy what I cannot.

But there is one thing left to enjoy; our treat, served by two little old ladies in the old schoolhouse. The toffee crumble ice lolly. I've written about it before, but I'm mentioning it again, because eating one on the way to the car is worth the long trek, the heat and the crush of the beach. I chew the stick all the way home, and lecture my girls on the bounteous gifts that living in South Devon bestows on them.

We can go to the beach whenever we like, but next time I want to swim in the sea, I'm going on my own.


© Kate Boydell 2004. All rights reserved. e-mail: [email protected]. Close window.