one – natural light. Although I'm a shadow hugger by nature, I can appreciate the sunlight with the best of them, mostly from indoors or beneath the dappled shade of a tree.
two – I can see the town hall clock perfectly from here, which is great on days when I'm cafe writing before work and I've forgotten my watch i.e. today.
three – with the sun shining on the squad of market stalls, the striped roofs look amazingly cheery and make me feel nostalgic for deck chairs, buckets and spades and those ever so slightly salty/crunchy picnics on the beach...
I have so many mixed emotions about the summer, whilst I enjoy the weather, albeit from inside buildings or thick with sun tan lotion, it makes me miss the long summers off. That was school's biggest deception, the 6-8 week break. I don't think you ever really comprehend how lovely it is until you've lost it.
I also miss Stoke Beach. From my youngest age I can remember spending my summers with my grandparents in Devon and spending a lot of time at Stoke Beach which is where my grandfather had a caravan. Stoke Beach was a Co-op owned private caravan park full of ramshackle vehicles that probably could no longer be moved, set within the most beautiful bay. Originally a farm where tents had been pitched for child evacuees during the second world war, so many of the children loved the place that it became a private summer 'resort', populated with local holidayers, evacuees and the generations which followed. Many of the friends I made there were the children of the friends my dad had made when he was young. There was such a sense of community that the kids would spend the day rampaging around the beaches, in the woods and stumbling through each others caravans, all the parents utterly content that they were safe and that everyone kept an eye on each other.
Apart from the friends, community and camraderie, the thing that make Stoke Beach magical was the location itself. The caravan site was small and set on stepped layers on the hill which sloped down into the bay, at either end there were sheep meadows full of bitter stubby vegetation that clung to the sandy soil. A wood hugged most of the site, offering ample shade for tree climbing, fort making, knife throwing, child kidnap and nettle diving. The bay the site was set in was about a mile across, holding within it a series of smaller bays, each perfect for different things; crabbing, diving, surfing, swimming, rock pool hunting, sun bathing and exploration. One bay, on the far end of the larger bay, the beach directly below where my grandad's caravan clung on the very edge of the cliff, was full of eroded cliffs that had formed stone passages, twisted and organic, perfect for small bodies to slither through at low tide.
One of the most memorable things about Stoke Beach was the abandoned church. Set in the middle of the caravan park, surrounded by a field of meadow-sweet, grave stones and trees, the church was slowly becoming part of the woodland. I don't remember it ever having a roof apart from in one shaded corner, and wild flowers grew between the inscribed flagstones on the floor. The place felt so serene, so much part of the land that was reclaiming it – I often wonder if this was why I always thought of nature being spiritual, if this was why I became Pagan/Wiccan.
Anyway, time for work...
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