The moon rose steadily above the sea, a fire burned near its silver trail which shimmered to the shoreline. Out there, beneath the ripples of the black sea, lay an old traveller’s tale of woe – a shipwreck – while new stories were told on sand that flickered between shadow and persimmon flame.
Marshmallows burned, kids ran into dunes with torches, sand crept into pasta shells, shoes and the odd unassuming orifice. While upon a tartan blanket, the seeds of an adventure were cast – a family of three were preparing to fly into an old land where many had trodden before. Although this tale would be different (as they all are), one I was sure never to forget.
Beneath a rising moon, by the sea which surged with impartial fury towards our fire, I felt clearly that change was upon us (as it always is).
And on this night, it had never felt more welcome.