The grandfather, the appointed babysit to a slightly obese 12 year old granddaughter. He’s trying to get her to move, to walk up to the top of the hill, to run after a ball, frantic efforts doomed to fail.
The girl is aware of her limitations ,such moves as suggested by granddad are already beyond her realm of ability encased in the body passed to her by nutritional failures of nurture, she feels no need for public exhibition.
She continues to throw a stick into the water, her dog performs what he’s conditioned to do. Granddad sits on a bench trying to grasp the implications of generations, he used to play with his dog, his granddaughter watches the dog play.
Doggy Paddle.
An almost identically clothed couple maneuver their newly acquired canoe to the waters edge then push the trailer back to the car park where the four wheeled status symbol awaits, complete with dog, surprisingly small. The thought crosses my mind that the dog should be called ‘Rover’ , Rover in a Rover.
Doggy gets his custom made life jacket put on despite it’s obvious growling dislike, is this because it doesn’t feel right? or does the dog realize how sad it now looks? Back down to the beach and doggy’s water training can begin. The lady sits in the canoe, the man walks with the dog in and out of the water, or should I say dog gets dragged into the water and is then allowed to run out of the water. Multiple attempts to get doggy into the canoe fail miserably. After thirty minutes of trying to adapt natural fear to fit their image of glossy magazine perfection the couple give up. Rover goes back to the back seat of Rover, trailer gets pulled back, canoe gets put on trailer, then Rover takes the couple and Rover back to a pub for lunch. Maybe a child would have been easier after all. A fisherman looks on, puzzled, as he scratches his ass.
Bores on tour.
‘Middle English’ is the preferred language here in this Pembrokeshire village, no Welsh or regional dialects.The neutral ‘middle english ‘ of the class that comes from anywhere and belongs nowhere.Suffocated in the boredom of possession competition, credit card struggles and mortgage madness they come. For two weeks of cottage inflicted relaxation, then it’s back, back to the the front line of the battle to belong, to be accepted for what they are not, and don’t really want to be.
Mum and Dad.
The silence of this idyllic haven is broken by the arrival of the family that knows what fun is,their moment has come, Mum and Dad have the day off, no work today. Dad has invested in a fishing line for himself and nets on sticks for the four kids, he wholeheartedly becomes the clumsy fisherman, walking up and down the Harbour wall with his magical rod in hand. Local, more experienced fishermen, advise him to sit in one place and use actual bait on his shiny hook. Dad reflects at the boredom on the fishermens faces, he has no time to waste now ,this is ‘the day out’, so he gets back to entertaining the kids, who have in the meantime caught more crabs in their nets than Dad would ever catch in fish.
Mum unpacks the sandwiches and drinks made early in the morning while Dad packed the car. After the lunch of best sandwiches ever, fizzy drinks and crisps Dad gets his sand burial he’d promised in the car, Mum gets to rest ,castles are built the tide goes out. Years later the children remember this day and in conversation ask themselves if it was a day? or was it all summer?
whatever it was, it became the mirror of their youth.
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