For those who don’t know Cornwall, it’s located in the pig’s trotter of the United Kingdom.
As the most southerly part of the UK, it’s the closest we have to a beach resort. Every summer tourists will come down to lie on a lukewarm beach with a belly full of buttery battered fish.
That is if the sun is out, I’m currently visiting my Mum (she moved here 10 years ago), and the tourists are being washed away by one of the wettest summers on record. I guess that’s the charm of the British holiday, eh?
Growing up, we came to Cornwall almost every summer. Often Gran Pat and Aunt Jen would be squeezed into the Red Toyota Previa and brought along with us. We’d stay in the Godolphin Arms in Marazion, a hotel that had a view of St Michael’s Mount, but more importantly, had a bar that overlooked the beach.
One rare sunny day in summer, the family decided to have a sandcastle competition. My brothers were a team, my parents were a team, and I was paired with my Aunt Jen. Gran Pat was the judge.
Most of my time in Cornwall was spent building sandcastles, so I already had a design I was confident with. It was a castle on an island with a moat, a bridge and surrounding watch towers. I had done it plenty of times before, but this one I was determined, was going to be perfect.
Aunt Jen and I paced back and forth with buckets of heavy, wet sand to create our masterpiece. I then searched the beach for sea glass for the windows, white shells for decoration, and then the finishing touch, a rainbow windmill.
…. We were the last to finish, but it was the best sandcastle I had ever made.
Gran Pat was dragged from her gin and crossword to do the judging. She moved from castle to castle with a fag in her mouth, and when she got to mine and Aunt Jen’s, I stood by with pride. She looked it over, took the fag out and pointed it towards my parents and said, “Eric wins.”
They had made a shape of an elephant, and called it Elephant and Castle. I didn’t get it at the time, but Gran being a Londoner… bloody well loved it.
“Oh, Pat,” Mum said, seeing her broken daughter’s face. “Mary and Jen’s one is a lot better than ours. They should win.”
“No,” Gran said, “my son’s one is the best.” She took another long toke. “Can I go back now?”
She walked back to the Godolphin Arm’s beach bar, where her gin and bitter lemon were waiting for her….
And I never built a sandcastle again.
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