This week saw us planting potatoes, sweet corn, chilli peppers, beetroot and French beans. The boys pinched tiny seeds between their fingers pushing them gently into warm soil. We spent time clearing the garden ready to put in new raised beds. We emptied the compost bins full of rich, earthy goodness. We ate in the garden, the patio table stacked with salads and fresh bread. The boys have been using shovels, hammers and saws to help dig out a tree stump, leaving minor wounds and dirty bath water.
The weeks are passing and the days are getting longer still. It’s glorious. The children go to bed late, their bodies exhausted from their days. They’re asleep within moments.
We drove to the beach on Thursday, passing field after field of rapeseed and then, getting closer to Norfolk, pig farms running parallel to the roads.
The pebbles on the local beach are beautiful. The boys splash in the sea, goosebumps from head to foot but not caring. I sip scalding tea and watch the boys dance with the waves, buckets strewn on the shore filled with heart-shaped rocks they’ve found to add to my collection.
There’s no time to keep on holiday, just the gentle rhythm of the days. We eat when we’re hungry, we sleep when we’re tired. The boys take the laundry out, hoover the sand from the floor, race around the caravan, play with water pistols.
Great Yarmouth was beautiful yesterday. Funfairs, ice cream and digging enormous holes in the sand, burying the boys.
The boys are covered in sand and it’s beautiful. I take my hair down and I feel the sand trickle down my back as it works itself loose. The sun rises red in the morning over the sea, filling the caravan with a pink glow.
It feels good to have no plans, no agenda. Just endless days to spend with happy boys.