Lucy Next the Sea

Instructions on a heatwave

^{You have to get up at 530am for a beach this empty, and have a lovely friend called Katy who brings the coffee}

I haven’t been on here for ages, so my first post back surely can’t be me complaining about the heat. Not least because we are all in it together, and some are literally ‘in it’ more than others. Like the poor London bus driver, in charge of an enormous vehicle full of sweaty people in 36 degrees, who had to stand on the pavement chucking pints of water over his head. There’s tip number one for navigating a heatwave. Jug, water, bend over and pour it down the back of your neck. Like having our hair washed as children in the seventies, before we got a rubber hose attachment to suction to the bath taps.

The fact is that I live very near the sea and as such, am INCREDIBLY LUCKY right now. But, if it helps, before you unsubscribe, it’s not always the best place to be in hot weather. Apart from the obvious, like there being no shade and therefore impossible to enjoy for longer than a sizzling hour, there are other pitfalls. Here are some which I hope will make you feel better about hanging out with me.

The other morning, smugly early, Steve and I took the floofy dog down to the stony end of the beach for a cooling dip, before the traffic warden turned up and shouted at us. I have been an unwitting irritation to him several times in the past either due to not putting Margot on a lead for the ten steps from the beach to the car park (illegal!) or being 5 minutes over on my parking ticket (defaulter!) I am more scared of him than I am the tax collectors (although they are always much nicer to me and I owe them money unlike the car park attendant to whom I owe nothing). And yes, he is just doing his job, but jeez does he absolutely relish it. Hovering around, waiting for the time to tick into the danger zone, and then slapping yellow parking notices on windscreens with gusto. Anyway, that is a deviation from the main thrust of why beach life is not always the best life, but it underlines my point. Always something to spoil things.

So, picture the scene. Steve and I bobbing around. The sun casting a glittering path on the flat calm sea. It’s so clear that we can be on good alert for jellyfish, seals and raw sewage. Just along the coast there’s rumour of a secret discard of shit, a brown slick has been spotted, settling just beyond the swim buoys. A decade ago, when I first started swimming in the sea regularly, I rarely bothered to have a shower afterwards, but now it seems foolish not to. Particularly after one pal got a serious gastric bug after falling off his surfboard and taking one big gulp.

Anyway, back to us in the water. It’s solstice, so I ask Steve if he has made any intentions and he shouts ‘NO!’ which I think is a little aggressive. I know he’s not big on pagan rituals, but he could just humour me. It turns out that he isn’t yelling at me, but at a small terrier who has bounded over to our pile of clothes and cocked his leg on them. We are too far out to get back in time. So, we both shout ‘NO!’ followed by the more emotional and ruder, ‘FOR FUCK’S SAKE’ and then his owner runs after the dog, trying to grab hold of him. ‘SO SORRY BUT IT’S OK,’ she shouts apologetically, ‘HE’S MISSED YOUR TOWELS.’ Then she gives us a thumbs up. It puts a dampner on things.

When we come out, we are drying off and a man heads towards us. He clearly has something to say but before he can say it, his dog pees on my dress which is neatly folded on the sand. ‘NO!’ I shout and startle the dog so he moves on to Steve’s shoes for his follow up wee. All three of us shout at the dog and the man is mortified, apologising profusely. ‘I only came over to say how brave I thought you were to get into the sea,’ he says mournfully. We end up consoling him. We are dog owners and therefore have to see the funny side of it. But still. For fuck’s sake. I go to the bakery in a strategically placed towel because good bread is more important than modesty.

The following morning, I am on the sandy beach with my friend Ros. It’s not even 8am and families are already laying out blankets, hammering windbreaks into the sand and popping large brollies up, staking their claim to as much space as they can respectably nab. Small children are running in and out of the shallows screeching. It’s a very different scene from the usual handful of swimmers, taking a calm breaststroke across the bay at this time of day. Ros and I swim with one eye on the kiosk and the growing queue before the shutters come up and we race over there, not bothering to dry off or get dressed. Fiona serves us and reminds us about the seagulls, and we all laugh about this, because we are local which means we are always on alert. Ha ha ha. Ha.

We sit in deckchairs, looking out to sea, eating our croissants out of the brown paper bags. It’s not the most relaxing breakfast, but we know these pesky birds. After all, we are locals. Then Ros shrieks impressively and, from behind, a gull with a wingspan that blocks out the sun, swoops over my head, brushing my hair with its talons as it tips forward, its beak lifting my croissant out of my hand as it is midway to my mouth. It manages to mug me without making a single mark. Thankfully it isn’t interested in my flat white.

So while I appreciate my good geographical fortune, the place is fraught with grumpy parking attendants, stinking sewage, rogue dogs, very peopley and run by a seagull mafia who need regular payment in baked goods. Don’t let me put you off though. Heading to the coast is always a good idea although best in winter.

*

At the beginning of the week, before the temps climbed to ridiculous, we lit the barbecue and cooked chicken, aubergine and courgette skewers, thick slices of halloumi marinated in lime zest and garlic, a couple of pieces of salmon and pillowy flatbreads. And then each night, I made a big salad, and we picked from the BBQ selection. Mid way through the week, to bulk it out, I just about managed to boil a few Jersey Royals and another night I made a tomatoey bed (the IOW tomato balsamic is insanely good for this) for a creamy burrata. Maximum effort on one night to provide minimum exertion for the rest of the week. On the hottest day ever recorded (I may have made that up but can’t be bothered to fact check) lunch was a Magnum. Ice cream, not champagne. I can’t do booze over 25 degrees unless I am sitting in a piazza.

^{Breakfast in the community orchard with Ann Patchett}

Bridport Library has come up absolute trumps recently. They have a ‘fastback’ scheme with new book releases which means you have to return them in a week, but as the football is on, it hasn’t been hard to hit deadline. I have gone from Deborah Levy’s ‘My Year in Paris with Gertrude Stein’ to Carol Claire Burke’s ‘Yesteryear’ to Lily King’s ‘Heart the Lover’ to Ann Patchett’s ‘Whistler’. Now I have scored Lucy Steed’s ‘The Artist’. I am a pig in shit. As opposed to a swimmer in shit.

*

When I was an agent, I met a young actor, the sister of a friend of mine and she said, when she left drama school, that she hoped I would represent her. I followed her progress, went to the LAMDA productions and championed her from the sidelines. When she graduated, I took her on. Not only because she was a massive talent, but because I just loved being around her. Some things never change, although I gave up my professional relationship with her when I gave up agenting. She is as funny, astute, irreverent, resilient and thoughtful now as she was back then, with the same infectious laugh. So if you have time, listen to Anna Maxwell Martin on Desert Island Discs being brilliant and so absolutely herself. All the emotions for this one. Which is what DID and Lauren Laverne so often deliver.

*

Last thing, before I disappear into an edit I should have been doing instead of writing this, a heatwave drink. As a mother of golfing sons (not something I predicted), I sometimes take my laptop to the clubhouse while they are playing to save driving back and forth and wearing a groove between the house and the 18^th hole. And in this weather, I order a Gunners, popular amongst actual golfers. Equal parts soda (or ginger ale) and ginger beer, with a slug of lime cordial and a dash of angostura bitters over ice. Crisps essential.

^{Hole in one}