There's nothing nicer than sneaking away for a couple of midweek days, and heading to the beach.
It could have sucked. It almost did. Peanut didn't travel well on the journey there, and the car still has a fragrant waft to it almost a week later. The house was freezing - a fibro cottage perched on the cliff top and buffeted by the overcast weather rolling in across the bay. And Mr Accident was feeling off colour, just enough to not want to exercise, which is always a sign of sickness in dogs and thus can clearly be applied to husbands, too.
But actually? It didn't suck. It was spectacular.
It was too cold to swim, but knees-deep paddling was enough for the girls. They discarded their shoes, then eventually their jackets and pants, chasing the wavelets half dressed and squealing. Archie played for a while, but then ventured out onto the rock platform. He was peering down into the waves when the waves decided to come up for a look themselves. I don't think I've ever seen the old lad run so fast. His nose was thoroughly dunked.
We sandcastled and kite-flew, we fish-and-chipped and swung-in-the-park. There was a trip to the local zoo (Peanut rode a pony!) and the gold mining village (I was chased by a duck). There was ice cream eaten late at night in a shop, the flavour carefully chosen by a small girl with sticky fingers poking from a warm jacket, excited about being out after the streetlights were on. Special treats.
|That dog would follow her anywhere.|