Towards Little Beach

As a family back in the 70's and 80's we spent two sublime weeks of every summer with beloved cousins, uncles, half brothers and sisters and friends packed into a house called Yellow Sands, designed by my great grandfather, (who also was architect for Barkers of Kensington and was MP in Plymouth until Nancy Astor, the first Woman in Parliament, took his seat!) overlooking Thurlestone Rock in Devon.The whole span of our childhood, speaking for my sisters too, was heightened to ecstatic feral pleasure by these fourteen days. Our parents let us swim in storms, even at night, being tumbled into shore amongst the rocks. I wish my body could do those somersaults now.We played golf illegally on the links, picked mushrooms and fried them up for breakfast, chewed winkles and cockles pickled in vinegar, and played tennis badly) in the club tournaments. Cream teas, of scones slathered in thick clotted cream with strawberry jam on top (yes the Devonshire way round I think- I mean, how could you possibly put the jam on first?!!) were the delight in the late afternoon.And each day we alternated between big beach, seen from the house, or little Beach, a trek on a diagonal path across the golf course past this barn/shack, which smelt of oil and freshly cut grass. I keep going back to this image in my memory.

It bought me such joy, its shape against the sky line. I decided as a youngster that all I wanted was to live in a shed like this and make it my Merlin's den from The Sword in the Stone - TH