We packed up our cars, and our smalls, and our thermoses of hot chocolate and our rugs.
The men packed their rods and their lures and their bait, and let down their tyres.
The drive, the sea, the air. The lunch that tasted amazing cooked over hot coals, and the home made shortbread. The warm sun that chased biting wind, and the so many jumpers.
It was everything a soul needed to breathe. Soul space.
The bigger few littles went wild in sand dunes, returning only every hour or so for food, and then heading back into their unrestrained freedom.
This is what childhood is made of.
There were no fish, this time.
Though the school of salmon was excitedly chased down the beach, escaping.
Not escaping though, was the realisation that wild air is necessary, no, crucial.
Watching men be men, boys be boys and girls be girls.
And me, be me.
Drinking the wild air.