Feeling, hot, hot, hot.

I've come to the conclusion that trying to write on a beach is a bit like pulling teeth. 

The azure blue sky, the delightfully warm Mediterranean Sea, the gleam and glint of the yachts on the water, the sun-beds, the colourfully striped parasols - they stretch before me in the distance, as far as the eye can see. It's a beautiful sight, but how the heck am I supposed to concentrate when all around me life is happening before my very eyes?

I can probably say, with the utmost certainty, that I will never see any of these people again, but that doesn't matter, as we're enjoying ourselves here and now. As I look around, I'm surrounded by a rich tapestry of nationalities. And, just for a while - for a brief moment in time - without us all ever realising - our lives have coincided. We've come together.   We're rubbing shoulders.

There's every shape and size. There's the young and beautiful with their skinny, lithe figures. People with a few more years under their belt whose bodies are a little more lived in (like me), and, of course, many different skin tones.  I've heard American, Spanish, French and German accents today but strangely enough, very few English.

Mostly, people are here to relax, eat, drink and take in the sun, but that just doesn't happen without an awful lot of organisation. In some cases, huge bags filled with beach paraphernalia are carried down to the shore, almost like a military operation. The Spanish are especially good at this.  For them, a day out on the beach is planned down to the last detail. From dawn to dusk they'll sit there, with their stall set out, and boy, do they enjoy theirselves. Every single member of their extended family is invited too - well, that's what it seems like - and I really like the thought of that.

I've seen men, women and children fussing, fighting, arguing and laughing.  Babies sleeping, crying, and screaming. And - at this time of year, of course, the sun can be a demon, so the regular slapping on of suncream is a necessary evil, but that - in itself - can lead to tantrums. Children - especially - don't want to know.  They want to be free - to be let loose, to jump, to skip and run. And, boy, can they run! DH and I have chased my youngest son many a time on the flat, wet beaches of Anglesey.  Always like quicksilver, he used to set off at a gallop. He adored the freedom to just let rip with the wind in his hair and on his face. Thank goodness I don't have to do that anymore. Chasing after children is for the young and nimble, and I am no longer either of those things.

And, just to finish, here's a coincidence for you.  A few years ago Quicksilver Boy saw Jeremy Clarkson in London and had the audacity to ask for a selfie.  The television presenter obliged, but this week in Deià, Mallorca, my eldest son also came across Mr Clarkson, who very kindly said hello, but then just strolled away and got on with his day.

No selfie this time. Perhaps he was on his way to the beach?

Until next time.

Kim X