Oh I do love to be beside the seaside…..
What is it about stepping out onto a shingle strewn piece of unfertile land and staring at a muddy, expanse of water that is so redemptive? You tell me.
Is it all about the lizard brain recognising some faint wisp of its history on the salt smacked air? The Proustian recollections of sounds, smells, textures and tastes that accompanied the inevitable holiday to the coast of my sixties/seventies childhood; unburdened, as it was, by the responsibilities and the tragedies of a longer-lived life? Perhaps a higher oxygen level as the land gives way to the waves? Maybe the sense that the purse strings have loosened because ‘we’re on holiday’ ie. should we buy this bit of tat or should we have another beer – ‘sod it, we’re on holiday!’.
Whatever it is, there is a sense of the slothing off the skin of constant marking, supervision and parental interaction. Within 24 hours the walk is a little jauntier, the skin a little less sallow and the outlook a lot more optimistic.
And whilst we’re talking about it let’s deal with the word – staycation – wtf is this abomination? You go on holiday, you have a holiday it could be either home or abroad. If you have your holiday in the UK you are on holiday not on a ‘staycation’. If you holiday in Portugal, are you on an ‘awaycation’? No, you are not; unless, of course, you’re an idiot.
Three lovelies this week to get your teeth into, it was going to be Dylan all the way to celebrate the octagenarian’s cussed hold on popular culture but I was swayed on hearing again the skeletal cover of Wilco‘s ‘Jesus Etc.’ by Bill Fay, then we get to the Dylan. Firstly, the greatest break up song ever written and then possibly Dylan‘s best vocal performance over a heartbreak lyric. I am aware this is lighting a potentially dangerous fire by making such rash assertions but… sod it, I’m on holiday…
As ever take what you want or need.
Ghostly
Imperious
Impassioned
