The sea is a deep, impossibly deep blue this morning with stark white caps where the fierce wind whips across the top of the waves and a crisp white line where the surf crashes at the beach.
It is sunny and warm but the wind is powerful.
After a whirlwind breakfast, I ushered my son up the hill to his friends’ house for the day. The children are all on holidays this week and are getting in as much play as possible before returning to the business of school. Their parents, meanwhile, are sharing the wealth, passing the growing pack of boys back and forth between households so they can get some work done.
So familiar a conundrum, but unlike Ottawa, there are no holiday camps, no PD Day camps. And as much as I rely on those myself, I would definitely choose the less structured play of these boys if it was an option. It is what childhood should be all about.
Yesterday, they went to the beach, had a stone throwing contest, drew in the red sand with sticks, played sort-of cricket and went to see some spiders and blesbok or springbok – he wasn’t sure.
“It’s like being at camp!” he enthused – and in his world there is no higher honour.
Today they’re off to another boy’s house on another adventure.
After dropping him off, I headed back down the hill to my waiting coffee and my husband, enjoying the view of that deep blue, white-crested sea and looking forward to my own adventures.