Beach Crumble

'Mummy, what's this sand here? The bit that's dry and crusty but soft underneath.'

I remembered crumbling that type of sand - that had dried quickly in the hot sun after the tide had gone out - between my fingers as a child and pretending to make apple crumble.

'I think it's crumble,' I said.

'Oh yes. It is!' she answered happily, breaking it up with her fingers. 'Apple crumble!'

We'd had a beautiful walk behind the dunes and down to the beach, past tall, bright pink thistles, hedges heavy with elderberries and blackberries, mystery orange mushrooms, butterflies, watching the people dots moving around below and enjoying a surprisingly hot strong sun and sumptuous blue sky for September. Well... at least I did. Our youngest child complained all the way to the beach. It was too hot, too far, too boring, her legs ached, she wanted to take a shortcut. She didn't want to go for a walk, apparently, she just wanted to sit on the beach.

At least the crumble cheered her up.

Before she started complaining again.

I'm deliciously sleepy from a salty walk and then a blackberry picking ramble up the hill this evening. It's nice to feel like sleeping in the evening. It often takes me a very very long time