Memories

It is twelve months since Hugi died and there are times, and places, when I really miss her. Seven thirty on a Saturday morning on Brancaster beach, is one of them. 

I always park at the top of the road leading to the beach. I'm not one to study tide tables and I don't want to risk being trapped in the carpark, when the road floods. 

On Saturday there were few people about to disturb the peace, but a brave, barefooted swimmer walked past me as I got out of the car. I kept my coat on, wore scarf and gloves. It might be April but it wasn’t that warm.

The walk along the bank to the beach brings me even closer to Hugi, she's running in front of me, making me hurry, eagerly anticipating the sea and the sand.

 Several vans drive past, racing to get to the carpark before the road is closed by the incoming tide and by the time I reach the carpark, the van drivers are are donning wetsuits, sorting their paddle boarding equipment and exchanging gossip.

The sea looks uninviting as it creeps up the beach. A couple pass me on their way back to their car, an overexcited spaniel barking, demanding that the ball be thrown just once more. In the distance, there is one other walker on the beach.

It is cold, windy and wonderful! 

I walk as far as I dare, keeping an eye on the tide and when I start to walk back, I see that the paddle boarders are braving the waves. The sea had reached the rocks in front of the golf club. 

Sand clings to my wet shoes, soaked as I had clambered around the rocks. The first golfers are teeing off on the golf course, and within seconds, as I start to walk back along the bank, the sound of the waves is replaced by the sounds of songbirds flying busily above and the calls of sea birds among the reeds. Skeins of geese fly past. They travel back to Norfolk every year. Perhaps I will too. 

The trip to Norfolk had been planned to deliver some books to our house in Docking. Books that I couldn't face getting rid of, but didn’t want to take to France. I found space for all of them—partly because I discovered several books on the shelves there, that I forgotten I had. These and a few other items, essential to life in France, have been transported back to Cambridge to be packed. 

An appointment at the Visa centre in London, on Monday, was not without its frustrations. Everyone was very helpful and the wait not too long (comparatively) but I had somehow managed to fill in the wrong forms applying for the wrong Visa. This, amazingly, was easily sorted, but when I realised that I’d also misinterpreted the Medical rules I thought that we would have to give up on the spot. But during the ensuing week, with the help from some absolutely wonderful people at the NHS Business Services Authority— who answered the phone promptly, were helpful, did what they said they were going to do—it all got sorted. I find it sad that a level of service that should be the norm, surprises me.  

I am now hoping that a similarly efficient person in the French consulate, is assessing my need for a Visa, and processing it as I write. 

After going to listen to an interview with Curtis Sittenfield (part of Cambridge Literary Festival), I decided to buy her new novel, Romantic Comedy. It sounded fun, funny and warmhearted, something to counterbalance the Nordic noir novel by Ragnar Jónasson that I had just finished. 

I went for the Kindle edition—I have forbidden myself from buying any more books before I go to France— but was shocked to find that it was £10.99. It seemed an awful lot to pay for something that doesn't really exist. Determined to read some of her work, I have ordered one of her previous novels recommended to me by a friend: American Wife—a novel based around the life of Laura Bush.  I’ll let you know what I think…

If you would like to be sent a link when my blog is published, please contact me on info@jacquelinejames.co.uk and I will add you to the list.