It was a rare event when my maternal grandfather, Ben Bailess, would take my brother and I out for an activity or adventure. They have left a distinct taste in my memory, flavoured by excited hopes and childish disappointments that still trigger feelings of joy and guilt.
My grandparents retired to a seaside lifestyle in Paignton, Devon - part of the English Riviera. We visited during most school holidays. One summer, he surprised us with the purchase of two wooden sailboats and the offer to take them down to the man-made boating lake at Goodrington beach. There was no chance we would ever own the radio or the less expensive remote-controlled boats sold in a toy shop on Winner Street. We saw them every time we walked from their hilltop house on Penwill Way down to the town centre. We were allowed a few minutes to drool on the window of the Aladdin’s Cave of unattainable toys: boats, some as big as our bodies, along with the remote-controlled planes and cars, Airfix models and other glamorous toys we could never afford. Granddad’s abracadabra boats had a simplistic beauty: red and blue paint, cotton sails and string line. We were grateful for the illusion and keen to learn how to cast the spell. At the boating lake we plopped the boats in with no knowledge of wind or wave directions. We tugged the string as we circled the pond, enjoying the windy gusts and sudden uncontrollable turns My impatient brother soon grunted with boredom. I was jealous of the richer grandchildren with their electric power boats: show-off turns, churning up the water with noisy revving. Our fickle sails flopped with abandoned purpose and the boats often overturned. Once righted, we pushed them out but the mischievous wind flicked them back in sniggering parabolas. An afternoon sea breeze built. Granddad got cold and sensed our doldrums. He took us home with talk of getting back in time for Nan’s dinner. We trudged up the steep sea-view hill of Penwill Way, dripping with an indiscernible disappointment. The boats were laid to rest in the shed and rarely retrieved. Best efforts over, we returned to dreaming.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorA poetic-essay style blog with a limit of 365 words. 365 like the days of the year - my name being one of those days! Archives
March 2020
Categories |