IS it the salt? The reason that seaside memories are so perfectly kept? My very first memories are absolutely brinepreserved. I was a toddler sent to stay with my Great Uncle Willi and Great Aunt Kath, who were sheep farmers on the Gower, Wales, their land sloping down to the sea.
Although I realise that the following infant incidents have become recall-polished in the way broken glass is smoothed by sea tide on the seashore, the grit in them is true...
Standing looking at the cresting waves, thinking that the surf looked like lamb's fleece. (Too sophisticated a simile for a three year-old; perhaps an image placed in my head by the Great Aunt.) Then taking the bright-red Massey 35 tractor and its woodsided trailer down to the beach to gather seaweed to be used as fertiliser on the land.
On other occasions, I remember taking seaweed home to give to my grandmother, Great Aunt Kath's sister and a farmer's wife herself, so she could use it to divine the weather. Seaweed hung outside the back door, swelled when rain was due, dried up to signal a more clement climate.
My grandparents had another morning meteorological ritual, Bible-touchingly observed: tapping the barometer in the hall.
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