This weekend is a trip to Lowestoft, the town where I was born and raised to the age of 18 when university called me away. Denise and I are staying wiht my brother and his family in their guesthouse by the sea-front. It had snowed on thursday night, when we got here; Lowestoft was closed. The restaurant we wanted to go to had closed at 8.30 as the staff hadn’t been able to get in. I find this hard to imagine as we made it. Today the wind blows sand and seawater into our faces as we try to run up the beach, then give up and make a tour of town instead, passing by the park where I used to walk Josie — a Jack Russel — near where my family home was, the cmetary where the family searched for my grandmother’s grave to put flowers from Mum’s funeral. This latter had been my most recent trip to the town until now. Its lovely to see Ray, Sandy, Joe Kate and Rose again, but the town itself is mine only in the sense that my family lives here.
And now its Saturday, one week to take-off for a new town and a new adventure.