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So much to write about, so hard on the phone! My laptop is officially dead, but the hard drive is saved. Still, until I can enjoy the use of proper keys and screen, I won’t be using this much because my iPhone drives me mad.
Also, I haven’t been around. I thought the NC500 was the birthday treat, and it was… but not the only one. R and a few friends had another surprise prepared for my 60th; a stay in a lovely little place called Silverdale on Morecambe Bay, all hills and elven woodlands leading down to the estuary. Days later, a friend of mine laughed when I told her. ‘Morecambe?’ She chortled, ‘you were on the edge of the Lake District, girl, that’s where the money is! And they took you to Morecambe!’
I didn’t quite understand. I ‘ve been to the Lakes many times, yes, they are beautiful, but this was stunning too, in a very different way. I could have stayed there much longer.
The bay itself is strangely haunting. Tide out it’s this desolation of salt marsh and sand flats stretching for miles beyond view, a place of cockle patterns in the mud and tiny brown crabs avoiding the gulls. The tides are notoriously dangerous, coming in at knots faster than a man can run; there has been tragedy at Morecambe Bay. It almost felt wrong to enjoy the place but the blue sky and company made anything else impossible. Later a poem came:
In those dreams
I ran across the mudflats of the bay
Seeing strange lights over the water and went to meet them,
Between the shallows
And some half sunken moon
And all I could think was
I know those lights
All the centuries drowned
With the town under the sand
But your eyes were exactly the same.
Exactly the same.
That beach was as far as our exploration went. We spent long wrinkly hours in the hot tub, drinking our body weight in Prosecco and taking rubbish . One evening we met other dear old friends not seen in years. It was an excellent evening , a gem of a holiday.
It’s not always good to be me. But when it is, it really is.
Also, I haven’t been around. I thought the NC500 was the birthday treat, and it was… but not the only one. R and a few friends had another surprise prepared for my 60th; a stay in a lovely little place called Silverdale on Morecambe Bay, all hills and elven woodlands leading down to the estuary. Days later, a friend of mine laughed when I told her. ‘Morecambe?’ She chortled, ‘you were on the edge of the Lake District, girl, that’s where the money is! And they took you to Morecambe!’
I didn’t quite understand. I ‘ve been to the Lakes many times, yes, they are beautiful, but this was stunning too, in a very different way. I could have stayed there much longer.
The bay itself is strangely haunting. Tide out it’s this desolation of salt marsh and sand flats stretching for miles beyond view, a place of cockle patterns in the mud and tiny brown crabs avoiding the gulls. The tides are notoriously dangerous, coming in at knots faster than a man can run; there has been tragedy at Morecambe Bay. It almost felt wrong to enjoy the place but the blue sky and company made anything else impossible. Later a poem came:
In those dreams
I ran across the mudflats of the bay
Seeing strange lights over the water and went to meet them,
Between the shallows
And some half sunken moon
And all I could think was
I know those lights
All the centuries drowned
With the town under the sand
But your eyes were exactly the same.
Exactly the same.
That beach was as far as our exploration went. We spent long wrinkly hours in the hot tub, drinking our body weight in Prosecco and taking rubbish . One evening we met other dear old friends not seen in years. It was an excellent evening , a gem of a holiday.
It’s not always good to be me. But when it is, it really is.
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