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Talacre: postcards to myself…

October 12, 2013

In my 2005 – 2011 diary I wrote mostly personal stuff but here and there included descriptive passages for background colour.  Those describing Talacre in North Wales give me particular pleasure now, upon re-reading, as they revive happy memories of the time when Stella and I had a caravan there, our little foothold in the Principality.  I hope they may be of interest to others too for the pictures they paint of our former seaside retreat.

I’ve posted Talacre entries before (see under ‘Diary’).  Below are several more, short ones written whilst alone at the van, Stella at work: postcards to myself, almost.  They present Talacre in varying moods.  Still I feel the pull of the place and maybe you will feel it too…


WEDNESDAY 21/11/07

8:00am:  A damp misty morning following the overnight rain.  Bloody cold!  The park is largely deserted now though a Christmas tree festooned with coloured lights has gone up on the forecourt.  Very still and silent, puddles everywhere, leafless trees ghostly in the mist.  A robin, a rabbit, the sinister shadow of a rook.  I shall make myself a cheerful breakfast of bacon and eggs…


TUESDAY 29/07/08

Mid-day:  An enjoyable hour and a half on the dunes and beach.  Whipped my shirt and shoes off and waded out to knee-depth, black-headed gulls screeching overhead, butterflies skimming the ripples, young horsewomen galloping over the sand…

Early Evening: A thunderstorm this afternoon but all fresh and bright now, dripping downspouts everywhere, people venturing out of their vans again.  Scouse accents counterpoint the calls of woodpigeons.  A brunette in cream top and green shorts sits at a patio table, feet up, glass of rosé, browsing a glossy mag, her kids capering around her.  A beefy bare-chested guy, her partner, comes out to tend the barbecue.

Sunset:  Aglow still and murmuring, here comes the tide under the watchful gaze of a father and son fishing with rods on trivets as an orange trawler emerges slowly from the estuary.  A rainbow fades over West Kirby.  It would have made a nice Vettriano. 


WEDNESDAY 20/08/08

Mid-day:  Brown waves creaming within ten yards of the dunes.  Detritus such as a broken kiddie’s spade and a Coke can litter the tide line.  There are more people on this narrow strip of sand than I’ve seen on the beach for weeks – kids with ice creams from the van, kids building sand castles or paddling, a young guy with tattooed legs flying a kite shaped like a stealth bomber which maddeningly keeps buzzing our heads.  A podgy woman in a black dress fiddles with her mobile whilst squatting in a dune hollow with three small dogs on leads…


FRIDAY 10/10/08

I couldn’t believe the rain on Tuesday night: it was awesome, like a tsunami smashing through the trees to pound our van.  Opening the door a crack to have a look, my right arm was soaked in seconds.  Wednesday and Thursday were bright and breezy with hardly anyone on site and miles of empty beach, twisting sand devils rushing towards me, stinging my eyes and flapping my trousers.  I felt like the last human survivor in the closing scene of some disaster movie!


TUESDAY 16/06/09

It’s a cloudy afternoon as I walk up the beach beyond the lighthouse, close to the lapping tide, noting its stealthy advance, measuring it against the paw prints of a dog.  Overhead an old biplane loops the loop, engine faltering in a most alarming way before picking up again, recalling similar acrobatics with a biplane witnessed with my Grandad Dawson in his back garden when I was a child.



Copyright © Paul Beech 2013

From → Diary

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