It is the first day of our annual summer holiday in the Isle of Wight. The children have one thing on their tiny minds – the beach. The beach bags are packed, preparing for every eventuality. Coats, wellies and jumpers combined with sun tan lotion, swimming costumes and towels. One giant family beach rug and a bland picnic put together whilst shovelling spoonfuls of cereal into three small starlings. All the usual baby kit including the obligatory nappies – oh, the thought of changing a wriggling baby on the sand!
Finally, we drive into the car park and begin to unload the car and load up my husband. His face peaks out beneath the towels and rug which he has thrown around his neck, to give himself maximum arm capacity for the assortment of bags. I push the laden down buggy and the children reluctantly carry a bucket each. We stroll down to the beach, but our flip flops barely touch the sand before we are enticed into a nearby stall to buy three small pairs of sea shoes, two fishing nets, and two folding chairs which my husband convinces me will make our picnic more civilised and less sandy.
On the beach, we search for a spare plot - a challenge given it is one of the first sunny days this summer and the sand is littered with British holidaymakers and their wind breakers. We begin our hike up the beach, and abandon the buggy, to begin a treacherous climb over the rocks to reach the one remaining patch of sand. We arrive, looking as if we have trekked across the Sahara, carrying a couple of suitcases. The children squeal with delight at the edge of the water before they are rounded up for a mass sun tan lotion application. I chase ‘The Baby’ around the beach on my hands and knees slapping on cream at any opportunity. My husband lays out the ham sandwiches, brownish bananas, water bottles and digestive biscuits. The Baby takes one look at it and lets out an almighty scream. This is because he has been watching the neighbouring family lay out their picnic on the adjoining rug, consisting of cheesy Wotsits, jaffa cakes, a swiss roll and chip butties. In full toddler style, he has no shame in abandoning our rug, join our rather alarmed neighbours and crossly point to the Wotsits. Embarassed, we scoop him up, smile and frantically try and divert him with a piece of cucumber. Meanwhile, the children are comfortably perched on the new picnic chairs tucking into their sandwiches. As we sit on the picnic rug, which is now covered in sand and tuck into a rather grainy sandwich, my husband says, “You can’t beat an English beach holiday can you!”
