That time just before its rains,when you’ve not got a coat,and umbrellas don’t work when your walking on the beach with the Atlantic winds stirring up,angry,not to be appeased,Yes,he realised that the drops would be felt on his head,then his back until the rain pelts you from all angles,You get drenched pretty quick,even though you start to run,to run for your life,and then you realise that your alone ,as you have your son with you.For years,you had told him about the winds on Porth,and maybe he sort of got fed up with hearing the stories,as if they had become prescribed beach myths from his old Dad.aNiw,in that moment,in the hour,every minute,every second,the wind blew the rain ,and it blew it to you and for you.It had a life all of its own,it was making its impressions on you,on us.Its memory has lingered long in our memories ,our Cornish folklore.Since that day,I’ve walked on many beached up and down Breat Britain,but nothing to compare it with that day ,that time that place,fore shared memories of any sort,even in adversity change us,draw us closer together.

As the years pass,we all have stormy times in our life.Sometimes,we fight against them and win,others we feel that we are swimming against the tide and progress seems futile,but those times,that time is remembered,stored,drawn upon to live without thbeing n us again,so to speak.On that day,we found an Oasis in the local pub upon the beach,father and son ,a shared memory,a stormy day,but a shared day.We couldn’t stand up too well,but we were better off together.Truth is,we need to share good times,and,if we really want to be grown ups,we need to learn to share the tougher times,for out f them,we will grow to appreciate ,to live with greater vibrancy and purpose.

So,as the rain starts to fall:That was my memory muse today.



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