Hey Diddley-Ho There!
Our planned trip to the mountains did not happen. We mulled over the idea and settled for a postponement.
Sometime soon, I expect, someone will be asking me to take them up the North mountain again and who am I to refuse?
Heavy rain was forecast and the mountain track, as previously blogged, is treacherous to the extreme with many a reported death to its name. Heavy rain meant the track would be turned into a giant waterfall and as much as our truck could probably cope, we are a little dubious about our own abilities after the last escapade. Instead, we headed for the local beach. Referred to as such because it is just up the road and is the place where the locals hang-out. Some of the very best beaches have, sadly, now been ‘acquired’ and are predominately for the use of the ex-pat. community. (I recall the signs on the beach in Durban, South Africa back in 1987 where segregation was still rife – a ‘whites only’ beach sitting alongside a ‘non-whites’ area and there being a substantial difference between the two. Segregation – the shape of things to come, perhaps? But I digress). Knowing us as you do; not being ones to socialise with the likes of our own, we drove the car down onto the ‘local’ sand, right upto the sea edge, decamped and set about constructing a recently purchased kite; not too expensive you understand, about 60 of your English pennies.
Up, up, up she flies…
‘Let’s go fly a kite, up to the highest height, let’s go fly a kite and send it soaring…’ It brought back fond memories of box kites constructed from brown wrapping paper and sticks tied together with some parcel string; the hardship, the poverty, food rations, the war, doodle-bugs at night and the fear of not knowing whether father would ever come home.
But I digress, again.
Personally, I am far to young to have lived through the war years but I thought it would add to the mood of what we were doing if I gave it a little, nostalgic atmosphere. No? Win some, lose some.
The tide was out, the wind was warm and it was a great place to be. Waves lapped at our knee-caps as we paddled in the warm, Arabian Sea and marvelled at the worm casts that were spewed out as soon as the salt water receded.
About 10 inches high and 18 inches across – BIG worms then?
The sun began to set and the evening temperature steadied to it’s night-time level, around 28 degrees Celsius, where it would remain constant until sunrise the next day. We ambled along the sand, content with our lot, watching the early evening arrivals who began to light their barbecues and wood fires. There are no restrictions as to what you are allowed to do on the beaches in this fabulous country; barbecue, camp, open fires, football, kites, cars and motorbikes – the space is for using and it really does get used (and abused!) to the max. Often to the annoyance of others, but let’s not spoil our day out.
We headed back to the car, decision already made to eat out at our favourite Italiano restaurant, then home to bed. Well, it was work the next day and although it may sound like something quite exciting and exceptional, it’s just another work night here in the land of dreams.
Sweet dreams!
The Flock on the Rock 
