.......And Beaches.....

Islanders are, of course, magnetically drawn to beaches. They have no choice. Must.regularly.fill.lungs.with.salty.sea.air. Or curl up and die.

Which is why, when we were growing up, the sweetest words our parents could say, on a warm Sunday after Mass, were "Let's go to the seaside!"

While Dad organised the picnic basket, Mum rolled up her sleeves and started making sandwiches.

Lahinch, on the coast of Co. Clare, was about forty miles away. Forty very long miles. As we got closer, we watched like hawks, each of us wanting to be first to see the sea. When the shout went up, we craned forward from the back seat, riveted by the distant gleam of the ocean.

We had to curb our enthusiasm, however, until we found the perfect sheltered hollow in the sand dunes. Blankets were spread and swimsuits wriggled into. Dad set about dolacawling* with the little stove and kettle to make tea, mother set about roasting herself, and we scattered.

Brother made a beeline for the rocks to watch the relentlessly crashing waves. Little sister built sandcastles, and permitted the smaller waves to chase her. And I went leaping like a goat over the smooth rocks separating the dunes from the beach. There was giddy exhilaration in leaping from one to the other, so sure-footed that I knew, while airborne, exactly which rock I'd land on. I sometimes wonder if all that rock lepping had anything to do with the less than nimble condition of my feet now....

And shells! The toy has not yet been invented that could enthrall me as thoroughly as a seashell. On every trip to the sea I'd haul home another load, maternal protests notwithstanding. They were, and still are, endlessly fascinating.

Lahinch is a wide, sweeping arc of golden bliss. When we tired, temporarily, of rock lepping and sandcastle building, we'd go dancing into the waves, and skitter back as a huge one threatened, and advance again, shivering and giggling, and jump with each approaching swell,in a futile attempt to keep from getting completely wet. Eventually we'd surrender, and let the sea have her way with us, and come up laughing and gasping for air. Even on the hottest day in July, the Atlantic is COLD. Exhilarated, and covered in goose bumps, we'd dash for our hollow in the dunes. And lie on outspread towels, hugging the warm sand, until our teeth ceased their chattering.

And then, for sure, we'd be ready for those sandwiches. My mother was a farmer's daughter, so you'd expect that sandwiches made by her, for children rendered ravenous by the salty sea, would be great agricultural slabs of things. But you'd be wrong. Somewhere between the farm and the beach, our mum had fallen in love with things genteel. The sandwiches, and there were plenty of them, fortunately, were dainty things, with the crusts neatly cut off. Suitable for ladylike nibbling at a bridge party. We were no ladies, and this was no bridge party. It was like tossing buns to elephants.

And tea by the sea. Oh my! Even though we drank it from the woefully inadequate blue plastic cups that came with the picnic basket,it was surely what the angels drank in heaven.

Sunscreen? Never heard of it. Must be for sissies. With our fair skin we regularly got roasted. Looking like a lobster was proof you'd been to the seaside.... Several days later we could be found,like our cousins the monkeys, engrossed in the ancient grooming ritual of removing crispy wisps of scorched skin from each others' backs.

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Liz was born in the Mojave Desert. But her bones know, that even though she lives in land-locked Ohio she is really a sea nymph.


This is our sea nymph in her famous film star pose....

She came to meet us in Miami for a weekend while her aunt was visiting from Ireland. It poured rain, the better to make Auntie feel right at home. But at least it was warm. This fellow was better rigged out than we were for the downpour.


There were three of us, which meant, given our combined lack of expertise, we could only have two of us in any given picture. But we wanted three. Not possible. Unless......Unless we threw ourselves on the mercy of a stranger.....Which is how we came to accost an unsuspecting fellow who had just come onto the beach from his hotel. Running up to him, camera in hand, smiling ingratiatingly, I asked if he would mind doing us a favour. Almost immediately, I knew I'd made a mistake. Of all the cool, laid back people we could have met on the beach, we'd run into the lone,humourless stuffed shirt. As he tsk,tsked,like a fussy old hen who had chicks late in life, I tried to back away, mumbling apologies.

"I came out here to exercise," he said crossly, impatiently reaching for the camera. All business. So...oo.. Its a miracle we didn't stick our tongues out,like naughty children, when he clicked. We began to thank him effusively, the more so because he'd been less than delighted to be accosted by three lovely lassies. But, lo! He was getting into the beach spirit now. "I'll take one more," he said magnanimously. Then, brushing aside our thanks, he went twittering off down the beach, intent on his exercise. We didn't accost any more strangers. Lesson learned. At least 'til next time.


But we did get a picture of all three of us, and we did fill our lungs with enough salty sea air to last us for a while.....

*dolacawling---my phonetic spelling for an untranslatable word used in Ireland that loosely means "messing about with......" Don't say I never include educational content here.

Note: I am guardedly optimistic that I might have finally nailed the picture uploading thing....not to mention ecstatic! Bear with me for a while if I get carried away with my new found abilities.