sun and sand and sea
I got back from London about twelve days ago. It was a fabulous trip, and once I get the whole camera to computer cord thing going, I'll do a post with pictures. But then... I dunno... (post travel let down...?) I got kinda depressed. The thing about depression, actually, is that there isn't a reason. There are just dark times. And there's really nothing you can do about them except ride them out.
And then I decided: I MUST GO TO THE BEACH. (It has literally been years since I've been to the beach.) So yesterday, we did.
Let me tell you, it is hard to be depressed when you're looking up at a picture-perfect puffy cloud sky, getting tossed and turned and tumbled by rough waves (thank you, Bonnie!), and feeling the undertow pull at you like you're a tasty treat the ocean wants to keep, all the while being splashed in the face by sparkling, salty, delightful water.
And then the sun soaked beach towel, and lying there, smelling salt and sand and suntan lotion, while reading the trashiest novels imaginable. (Judith Krantz was made for this.)
And I made a picnic for us: homemade sangria with lots of cinnamon and cloves and cognac and peaches and blackberries and strawberries, and sandwiches (curried chicken and arugula and swiss cheese; grilled chicken with rosemary; honey ham) and summer sausage and sharp cheddar and cucumber salad and grapes and hummus with artichokes, and ginger biscuits and graham crackers with chocolate cake frosting.
It was pretty amazing. I wish I were still there.
On the way home, we sang along to my ipod in a REALLY LOUD chorus, and it was great, and magnetgirl snapped this on the causeway leaving the beach:
It probably says something that despite D.'s killer sunburn (which we've got slathered in aloe currently) and our various wrenches and bruises and scrapes and sore muscles (god, we must be getting old) that all we can talk about is when we can do it all again.
And then I decided: I MUST GO TO THE BEACH. (It has literally been years since I've been to the beach.) So yesterday, we did.
Let me tell you, it is hard to be depressed when you're looking up at a picture-perfect puffy cloud sky, getting tossed and turned and tumbled by rough waves (thank you, Bonnie!), and feeling the undertow pull at you like you're a tasty treat the ocean wants to keep, all the while being splashed in the face by sparkling, salty, delightful water.
And then the sun soaked beach towel, and lying there, smelling salt and sand and suntan lotion, while reading the trashiest novels imaginable. (Judith Krantz was made for this.)
And I made a picnic for us: homemade sangria with lots of cinnamon and cloves and cognac and peaches and blackberries and strawberries, and sandwiches (curried chicken and arugula and swiss cheese; grilled chicken with rosemary; honey ham) and summer sausage and sharp cheddar and cucumber salad and grapes and hummus with artichokes, and ginger biscuits and graham crackers with chocolate cake frosting.
It was pretty amazing. I wish I were still there.
On the way home, we sang along to my ipod in a REALLY LOUD chorus, and it was great, and magnetgirl snapped this on the causeway leaving the beach:
It probably says something that despite D.'s killer sunburn (which we've got slathered in aloe currently) and our various wrenches and bruises and scrapes and sore muscles (god, we must be getting old) that all we can talk about is when we can do it all again.