Shell Bay

Drizzle and fog didn’t deter me from gathering my family and taking them to the beach. I knew that it would be soul nourishment for us all, but I was almost dissuaded by the apathy they showed to this outing. As soon as we stepped onto the quiet stretch of sand I knew it was the right thing. A took off, sprinting along the edge of the water, leaping away at the last second as the foamy waves rushed at her feet. L and I strolled arm in arm searching for shells and Jon breathed and walked and laughed at A’s infectious delight. And we had him back, right there on the beach, after his miserable few weeks of Covid and intense work anxiety (the kind that eats into your sleep and makes your stomach hurt). My thoughts wandered - memories of walking this beach with my Mum on chilly winter days, playing in the sand as a child – wondering if beaches will disappear as sea levels rise and if our children will share their memories of today with their children who may never know a beach – but perhaps it doesn’t take too long for the forces of erosion to soften the edge of land. A became lost in a secret silent game, taking large shining wet pebbles and burying them in the dry sand at the foot of the dunes. She placed her feet in Jon’s footprints, quietly following him toe to heel. And yet she fully present and absorbing all the external stimuli – the grey view out over the sea towards Old Harry rocks in the distance, the drizzle cold and wet on her skin, the sand on her fingers, the smell of the seaweed, stopping her game to investigate empty clumps of Whelk eggs or pretty shells. That’s the magic of the beach.