The sun, on its way down, still sparkled on the breaking waves but the shadows from the trees up on the beach path were inching their way across the sand; soon the long shadows would reach the straggler sun-bathers and send them packing home. The fisherfolk had already arrived, and were still coming – we were coming to join them; Roly had come up to the north coast for the surf fishing and he had arranged to meet a kindly old fisherman called Robert, who had promised to bring along a surf rod for my fishing buddy. There was no way I would be able to cast out beyond the breakers so, after the greetings with Robert and Adele, I took a long beach walk with Chris back in England – on my  mobile phone . Chris enjoys to hear the sea, the wind, and the snippets of conversation as I walk along and meet people with a “Hello” or “Isn’t it beautiful this evening?” We feel like we are together, as if we were strolling along the beach at home on a summer evening.

Every so often I said to Chris:

“Will you wait a minute while I take a photograph? I’ll send it to you and call you back…”

In that way my far away husband sees the same as I do, just a bit delayed; we saw our friend, shorts half wet from the surf and rod in hands; we delighted in seeing a little girl as she ran, ahead of her family, with the wind in the gathers of her pretty red dress; we thrilled at the waves tumbling over my feet and Chris could imagine the sand being drawn from underneath them. Maybe he even saw that last wave, the one that brought in the string – seaweed, I thought – that wound itself around my ankle and wouldn’t shake free.

“I’ve been stung by a bluebottle,” I said.

“I hope you’re not allergic,” Chris wondered.

I’m not allergic to jellyfish but a bluebottle isn’t a jellyfish; those small clear sacks aren’t filled with jelly – they are bladders of air that help to keep the tentacles of the Portuguese Man-of-War afloat. I am allergic to a Portuguese Man-of-War (millions of micro-organisms working as one to paralyse and kill). The pain from the sting itself was nothing in comparison to the searing agony that began ten minutes or so after the sting – something akin to molten lead in my bloodstream going up into my thigh, then my groin and abdomen…

The paramedics, Jackie and Ken, left only after the Adrenalin and antihistamines had taken effect and I could move my hands and walk around again – perhaps an hour and a half from the time of the sting. By morning even the swelling had all but disappeared – and by lunchtime there was no sign of the ordeal that had caused so much fear and panic. I went to the shops for a cool down and later… no I didn’t go down to the seas again (“To the lonely sea and the sky”) – I started a painting of Bella the wonderful golden retriever in my book, “Beautiful Bella”. Sadly, she died last June. I’ll finish it tomorrow and show you. It’s good to be alive.