If the blooming showers will ease up, we are off for our first doggy walk along Porthmeor beach since Easter. The dog ban is officially over today, and I for one look forward to this seasonal change in our weekend routine. We drive to Gramps' house (he overlooks Porthmeor, lucky devil), and descend upon him with all the noise and fuss that an unruly family can muster. Depending on the weather, we either have tea and biscuits with him before our walk, or after. Sometimes we do both. Sometimes he comes along with us too. I always have a sneaky peak of the Saturday papers. He takes The Telegraph. They do a good magazine and gardening section, even if their politics are decidedly Middle England Conservative Nonsense. Sometimes Marc and Olly go up into the loft and play with the Hornby trains, and then Gramps and I have a giggle together.
I have been very fortunate in always getting on famously with my in-laws. My sister in law is my closest friend and confident. My mother in law was one in a million. My father in law is the most sprightly eighty seven year old you'll ever meet. He still vaults his garden wall. He has an indomitable spirit, and a tireless energy. He is out dancing with his close friend, Christina most weekends. He and I share the same naughty sense of humour, and he delights me with his quick wit and close to the wind jokes.
We don't see as much of him during the summer months, and that's partly due to his hectic holiday schedule. He still lets out his holiday flats, and has a very busy social diary. But come the day that the dogs return to the beaches of St Ives, there we are knocking at his door. He knows, because he buys in shortbread fingers, and treats for Honey. "Come in, come in." he says. We take our shoes off at the door, and hang our coats up on the peg. Olly and Gramps have a special bond; Olly was only eighteen months when Granny passed away. Being too young to understand, he transferred his affection from Granny to Gramps, and they often sat cuddling on the sofa together. He brought smiles and laughter at a time that was overshadowed with grief and sadness.
Honey loves Porthmeor. If she could talk, I think she'd tell you that it's her favourite place of all. She sits by the cupboard in Gramps' kitchen, waiting to be given her treat. She lollops up to the front door, and enters via the cat flap. She barks at us, impatient to get going. She runs along the path past the bowling club and putting green, and reaches the beach before any of us. Again, she barks. For a stone. She loves to be thrown pebbles. She carries them in her mouth, and digs them into the sand. Once she's made a suitably comfy hole, she'll sit there happily. Over the years, people have stopped to take photographs of her sat in her hole. I like to think that somewhere, she's on someone's camera roll looking pleased with herself.
We may well carry on into town, and grab a take away lunch on the harbour. The colder months are for eating lip smacking, hot as Hades pasties. It's the only time of year I eat them. They are definitely cold weather food. The gulls aren't so abundant either, so there's less chance of it being snatched by one. We sit on a bench overlooking the harbour, and munch them down. Olly scales the harbour walls using the ropes that secure the boats. Sam and Alfie did the same thing when they were little. A little bit of family history repeating itself.
All in all, October remains one of my most favourite months.
Have a lovely weekend, friends.
(the photos above were mostly taken during a day out Marc and I had to celebrate our wedding anniversary. A day discovering ancient monuments and settlements. A day that I saw a Goshawk. A day for sitting outside Betty drinking a cup of tea, and watching the butterflies. I hope you don't mind that my pictures rarely correspond to the text. It's got to be a terrible habit of mine to unleash my camera roll willy nilly onto the pages of my blog :)).