A friend of mine is on holiday in lovely Cornwall. He's posting pictures online of wide bays and green seas, of waves crashing on rocks, and smooth pints in pubs adorned with anchors and fishing nets.
You know what I'm going to say, and yeah. You'd be about right: I'd sure like to be there.
What's not to love? It's pirates and smugglers and coves and rum. It's wild Atlantic, and sheltered, sandy bays. It's rockpools and fishing boats, fresh-caught fish and windswept clifftops. It's rolling, delicate hills, dappled in the shade of passing clouds and it's long country walks in tall woods and warm fields. It's holidays and cottages and little villages with tiny post-offices and stone churches and barnacled harbour walls. It's winding single-track lanes that twist down to the bright blue sea through high hedges and overhanging trees.
Well, anyway. It's not too bad here today. The sun's warm and the sky is blue in between showers. It's nice at the end of the day when the sunset turns pink and the puddles shine. It's still not Cornwall though.
I think I'm realising the benefit of family holidays. They are an investment for the future, not just a chance to relax this year. You're depositing happy times into your children's memory bank. One day, when they're stuck in front of a laptop on a work-day, they'll remember how lovely it felt to be on the beach with entirely nothing to worry about. And they'll smile when they realise they never knew it at the time.
As it turns out, my friend needs a holiday more than I do. He's been working without a proper one since 2014, so I don't begrudge him a little Cornish adventure.
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