A Thousand Miles of History XXXXIII: Dog-sick with Ice Cream

By late afternoon I was flagging. We had been on the road for a mere six days, and although we never rush and we always take our time at each of the sites we visit, we don’t stop either. It is easy to drive the short hops between sites, staying alert for obscure turnings, the perils of road-hogging sheep and lanes so narrow the hedges either side brush the car doors. But, after a few days, the longer stretches get tiring unless you are planning on stopping along the way, for that breaks the journey into bite-sized pieces and gives you a chance to stretch your legs.

My navigator keeps an eye on me though. “Fancy an ice-cream?” he said, casting a critical eye over his driver. Well, as it was rush hour and the roads were busy, and as the sea was only two or three miles to my right, that seemed like an excellent idea. He found me a seaside town where there was not only bound to be ice-cream, but also a last look at the sea.

I was born in an inland city and have lived away from the sea all my life. Distance is relative and what seems like an impossible distance to someone from a small country may be a daily commute for someone born in a land as big as the States. For all that Britain is an island, and a fairly small one at that, trips to the coast were rare and therefore special. I think that inland-dwellers tend to forget that we are islanders at heart, but the rhythms of the sea still sing in our blood and the sea calls to something that is buried deep within body and soul.

So, we drove into the little town of Seaton in South Devon and headed for the shore. The cliffs of the Jurassic Coast encircle a bay of deepest sapphire. The shingle beach was almost deserted as we sat with our ice-creams beside the sea. Watching the bathers, you could see how steeply the beach falls away at the waterline… no place for small children to paddle, perhaps, but I was sorely tempted, and had I packed a swimsuit, would have been in there like a shot.

Instead, I watched an old lady and her elderly dog… a joyful and strangely familiar dog, with a passion for tennis balls. We cannot bring Ani on these trips when they begin with a workshop, but I couldn’t help thinking how much she would have loved to be frolicking in the water and chasing her ball. After a week away, I was not homesick in the slightest, but I was missing my Ani.

Continue reading at France & Vincent

About Sue Vincent

Sue Vincent is a Yorkshire-born writer and one of the Directors of The Silent Eye, a modern Mystery School. She writes alone and with Stuart France, exploring ancient myths, the mysterious landscape of Albion and the inner journey of the soul. Find out more at France and Vincent. She is owned by a small dog who also blogs. Follow her at scvincent.com and on Twitter @SCVincent. Find her books on Goodreads and follow her on Amazon worldwide to find out about new releases and offers. Email: findme@scvincent.com.
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