When I was small I walked this path, my Dad’s strong, rough hand in mine, a sandcastle bucket clutched in my tiny fingers.
When I was young I walked this path, raincoat and wellies, grey stormy waves soaking us at high tide.
When I grew up I walked this path, a dog lead in each hand and a bright pink kite under one arm.
Recently I walked this path, a tiny hand in mine this time, with sandy spades and buckets.
Yesterday I walked this path, on my own. Wind in my hair, pebbles in my pocket, salt on my face.
Time marches onwards. Lives grow, flourish and fade. The sea is always there, always different, at the end of the way.
When I was young I walked this path, raincoat and wellies, grey stormy waves soaking us at high tide.
When I grew up I walked this path, a dog lead in each hand and a bright pink kite under one arm.
Recently I walked this path, a tiny hand in mine this time, with sandy spades and buckets.
Yesterday I walked this path, on my own. Wind in my hair, pebbles in my pocket, salt on my face.
Time marches onwards. Lives grow, flourish and fade. The sea is always there, always different, at the end of the way.
My grandma’s lived in the same house for as long as I can remember, and going to the beach is one of my favourite things. It’s incredible how I don’t really feel any different to that small girl with the bucket, but also incredible that so much has changed. The beach, the path, the sea are always there. I think there’s a profound lesson in there somewhere.
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