When my cousin first heard we would be camping in the very same county where she lives, it was a foregone conclusion that we would meet up. Layla-girl, her mother (my Aunty Cal), and I enjoy a rare and special relationship. Aunty Cal is only 9 years older than me – so is more of a big sister to me. Layla-girl is 19 years younger than me, but feels like my little sister. The three of us are much greater than the sum of our parts.
We decided that we would meet up on Sunday, the day before we left so that Layla-girl’s husband, the lovely Mr Chris could come along as well as their little boy Jamie. We planned a carefree hot day on the beach with Daddies playing football with little boys and we two relaxing on the sands catching up on all our news…
On Friday it rained.
On Saturday it rained.
On Sunday morning it rained.
We were due to meet at 11am. At 10am we exchanged frantic text messages debating Plan A, Plan B, Plan C…..?
At 10.30 am Mr Dotty opened up the flap of the tipi where I was huddled over the woodburning stove. ‘Come out here, quickly’ he whispered: ‘there’s something you should see.’ I peered through the mist – a deer, perhaps? We drove from Scotland to Scarborough to see a deer?! ‘No – look UP’. Oh dear: was Mr Dotty having a moment? Had Wee1 converted him to his own very special brand of Evangelical Monotheism? No… what Mr Dotty had spotted, through the mist, the drizzle and the heavy all-enveloping cloud was a pin-prick of white light. The SUN!!!!!!!!!!!
We hugged, we kissed, we threw caution to the wind and settled on Plan A.
The God(s), the Universe, Karma – it was all with us. After that tiny inauspicious start the sun came out, if not in force, then it was certainly a welcome and brave attempt. Layla-girl had dragged along the lovely Aunty Cal: we were happy campers indeed. Once we had done a tour of all the tipis, congratulating ourselves that we had indeed bagged the very best one, we drove off to the seaside.
Aunty Cal linked my arm in hers and with a purposeful stride announced: ‘Last to find the Crab Claws is a cissy!’. The Daddies gazed wistfully at the pub doors and were dragged unceremoniously away. Layla-girl (3 months pregnant) announced that she had a need for prawns NOW, and so we split into two groups: a fish and chip posse and a seafood posse: both would meet on the beach.

The prawns were no problem, we saw winkles and fell over ourselves giggling, nearly bought some to tease the Wees with, but then saw the price! When I was a girl they were 25p for a huge paper bag – today they are £2.35 for a miserly little polystyrene tray. The giggle disappeared into the sea air. We saw no Crab Claws on display… but then I spotted them: the most enormous bag you could ever imagine: as big as a supermarket carrier bag, for £6. ‘Shall we share?’ ”Oh YES!!’
Down on the beach, the Wees and the Daddies munched their fish and chips, Layla-girl finished her second tray of prawns and sat very still trying to convince herself that her morning sickness had indeed subsided as she had predicted, and Aunty Cal and I tore into our feast with gusto. Then we hit a problem. Quite a big problem. All the Crab Claws were big monster toe-pinching claws… not the little break-with-your-teeth and spend many happy minutes sucking a microgram of meat out of. Did we have a hammer; a nut cracker; a Swiss army knife; a grenade? No: we had two quite small jaws that were not quite up to the job. We bent them this way, we bent them that way, we even hit one against Mr Dotty’s head – but they would not yield… apart from one: the runt in the pack.

I happily gave up my vegetarianism for that one mouthful of sweet rosy flesh. Aunty Cal, as much as I loved her, went hungry.

By this time the Wees were running this way and that, building sandcastles, destroying them, chasing, catching, getting utterly drenched and caked in sand and having the time of their lives. They found a mini lagoon in an indent near the sea wall and it might just as well have been the most glorious infinity pool facing an azure Carribean sea: they were in heaven. It was an unmitigated joy: the companionship of family with an intertwined and interlocking history of support, husbands who have managed to find their own place within that unchartered structure, and a new generation just old enough to start playing together and to see where they come from.

And – just to cap it all – the fourth generation of our family (that we have photographic evidence of, anyway) rode their first Scarborough Donkeys.

Sentimental? Yes – unashamedly.

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