Healing & Holidays

I love the sea. I always find being near it calms me in a way that nothing else can. We don't have a great line in palm fringed sandy paradises with calm azure waters here in the North East of England. Our coastline is rugged and dramatic and beautiful. It rains a lot too. Standing by the sea here is a salutary reminder of nature's power and its unpredictability. The coast round here is studded with ruined castles, relics from an era when Vikings and others ravaged our little bit of England, the sea is studded with wrecks of ships who have come a cropper in these dangerous waters.


Last year we loaded up our brand new people carrier (well, brand new to us), bought to accommodate our need for 3 car seats, and trooped to a cottage on the Northumbrian coast. I was 34 weeks pregnant and we were all so happy. The weather was blissful and we stayed on the beach from morning (well lunchtime by the time I'd had my nap) until night.

D. & I headed back this way in November. The friends who let us use their cottage gifted us with a weekend here - a tiny opportunity to heal in the bleakest and darkest of days. We left the little ones with auntie, loaded up the too big car with logs for the open fire and lots and lots and lots of wine and comfort food. We hid away for a day or two.

... and we came back this year, uncertain if we were doing the right thing. Coming back without Emma. It was bittersweet, of course. How could it not be? But it was still a lovely holiday. The weather was not so kind this year but it was still good enough to spend our days building sandcastles and certainly not cold enough to deter our eldest daughter (who is almost certainly part mermaid) from braving the sea!


We arrived late afternoon on Monday and went for an evening stroll on the beach. Reaching out over the sea was a beautiful and vibrant rainbow. It wasn't the weak or vacillating sort. It was a perfect arch and it lasted the whole time we walked and played and climbed over the dunes back to our car. We claimed it as a good sign, a promise. Of what? I'm not too sure really. Of hope for brighter times to come I think.

Most mornings our children played outside the cottage whilst we got ready to head out. There is a family who have made a life for themselves, in this very remote spot. They live there all year round, the only permanent residents in a row of holiday homes. Their three children let ours use their ride along tractors and climbing frames and secret dens last year, and the friendships were renewed this year. We didn't really get to know the parents last year but I remember that their mother gave us a sympathetic and sad smile as we were leaving last November. This year, she cajoled me around for tea and parsnip cake (yes, really. Root vegetable cake! It's absolutely delicious). As I've said on this blog many times, I don't really socialise any more. Actually making small talk with a stranger ranks pretty high on my list of nightmares but I braced myself and went. She was lovely. Without any preamble she poured tea and said, "I'm so very sorry for your loss". Someone who said the right thing. How incredible is that?

"The same happened to me nine years ago. Our first child, our first son was stillborn." That's how she knew what to say. I always feel so sad when I hear that somebody else has lived through this awful experience but there is such relief in pouring it all out to someone who truly knows.

Yes, this holiday certainly had its sad moments. I stood on the beach and ached to know how Emma would have reacted to sand - would she have eaten it? (a la big sister) Would she have screamed at the sight of it? (a la big brother) Would she have a completely different reaction all of her own?

But, you know there were moments of peace and joy and even, maybe, a tiny bit of healing.