welsh hills again

Last Sunday my father in law died peacefully in our local hospital, aged ninety-five, from kidney failure.  Four days earlier he had slipped into deep unconsciousness and we knew he could no longer be treated.  From then on Ian and I, hugely supported by our son and daughter and their partners, who live reasonably locally, kept him company night and day. Our other adult children, who live far away, provided their own support by phone and text.  How does anyone manage these things without the loving support and care of adult children, I wonder?  When my mother died last year I felt it too: we were not alone, the next generation were with us, taking their share, looking after us in their turn.  It is a good feeling.  I felt as I do now about blogging when my mother died. Partly I did not want to blog.  There are some things which need privacy.  But I also knew that if I did not mention something so important, if I blogged about gardens or lemon cake or walking on beaches, I would i

One day I will spend a whole summer by the sea.  I will lie on blankets on the sand and paddle with children and eat slightly sandy sandwiches.  I will walk along cliff tops.  I will watch the tide come in.  When I was a teenager I used to spend days on the beach with my best friend, Ruth.  If you spend enough time on a particular beach you come to know what is revealed when the tide goes out, the places where the water lingers and becomes sunwarmed pools.  You know how the sand behaves, where it ripples and where it hardens, where it goes soft suddenly underfoot.  When the tide comes in again you know where the water goes suddenly cold, where the sand holds out in little islands against the rising water. I must go down to the sea.