HARBOURING AFFECTION

It’s been a long drive and I dig into Simon’s leg with the exclamation, “Look at that welcome Baby.”

Bunting triangles - so high they deck the sky,

zig-zagging a nautical blue and white, at such a height,

tacking cheerily through Dorset's twilight.

I can’t wait to see the place I harbour such affection for, bathed in sunshine. This place, this British town, beside the seaside.

Beside the sea turn right at the roundabout, up that street, beyond the bowling green: there’s our retreat.

We’re finally here and out the car… smell the tide.  Hooray, three cheers. We’ve arrived. Children and parents somewhat bleary eyed.

Oh buoy, oh buoy; look back to the harbour. The fishing boats, resting now, heave up and down, stern and bow. The sailing masts that sit in between them talk to each other in tinker.

Kids quiet, tucked in and snoozing, and from where we sit, Simon and I can see it all. Including that instantly recognisable wall. You know the one? Once cloaked in Meryl Streep… That film that made us all so weep?

The sea is sparkling. Dancing. The daylight is dimming and lights like a row of tears all a-blur are flickering: Gold bulbs, the corn on the Cobb.

We sit and drink in the view until slumber hijacks us both. And as I slip into sleep, I’m sure I hear the breeze through the open window whisper, “welcome back.”