Escape to the beach

 
We got the chance to run up to Lewes with a dear old friend and a lovely new one. Nothing quite like a weekend at the beach… well, except perhaps a week at the beach. The house we stay in when we go to Lewes is my friend Mine’s sister’s, full of old advertisements and antique toys, comfortable furniture and good beds. They don’t rent it out, which makes staying there SUCH a treat. The King of Everything ran around the backyard chasing fireflies, then dropped off to sleep while the girls went grocery shopping. Grown up time. My kid and I have been staying in an efficiency apartment while in DC – very rough on us both. No privacy, and I either go to sleep when the kid does at 7PM or sit hunched in the dark over my computer or a poorly lit book, listening to him shift and sigh in his sleep. At the beach, he was upstairs in a lovely room while I sat downstairs listening to music and enjoying conversation with grown ups, people who didn’t require that I repeat myself fifteen times in a row every time I was asked a question.

Beach culture in the States is quite the state of mind. The journey to the beach is a part of the experience, naturally. Families and friends gas up their cars and go, driving eight, ten hours to get to the shore of their dreams. Luckily for us, it’s only three hours, tops, to Lewes. On the route down to South Carolina, the signs begin for South of the Border a good hundred miles before you ever set eyes on Pepe or the insanity that is this home grown roadside attraction.

On the drive to local beaches, it’s the farmer stands that attract attention. Local sweet corn, hefty heirloom tomatoes, sweet peaches and watermelons are good reason to stop and stretch. Out the window, the view offers a crazy quilt of soy and corn fields, buffalo and more conventional cows grazing in pasture, a gaggle of goats straying right up to the roadside to catch a glimpse of the cars whizzing past. Ruined barns and double grain silos compete with quaint farmhouses for the best, most picturesque view… if you’re a photographer, plan to stop often.

We were serenaded by thunderstorms all night, and rain threatened to stop play in the morning, coming down in morose sheets, grey and lacklustre. As soon as there was a break in the weather we were off to the state park and the beach. Cold water. Very cold water, but there were plenty of surfers riding the waves, little kids fighting over beach toys, and grownups of every description thankful for a respite from the daily grind of their ‘real lives’.

Beach culture. Beach weekends. The stuff of life in workaholic America. Sunday brunch at the local dive. Wander down to the corner store for a newspaper and a cuppa, then sit and people watch on some gingerbread porch. I fantasized for a moment that Lewes was my town, the beach my life. It’s a sweet dream. If ever I am allowed to be a homebody, stay at home mom, a Salt Cod home on the beach could be my little slice of heaven. Sigh. Back to reality.