Sunny day by the sea washes chook woes away

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This week, sad news. Not in a “hero of the film we’re watching just died, what now for the next 55 mins?” kinda sad, or a “six-year-old reaching the end of a playdate and so not wanting to go home” kinda sad.

Nope, it’s soooo much sadder than that.

This time last week I was praising Brenda the Borrowed Broody, as she stepped in – or should that be hopped on – to incubate my six special Old English Pheasant Fowl eggs carefully shipped in from Lancashireshireland after two of my usual broodys gave them the body swerve.

Sadly, Brenda lost that lovin’ feelin’ after about 24 hours and was suddenly far more interested in making friends through the weld mesh of her special pen.

Epic fail no. 3.

So off it was back to Tracy Henmummy’s in a box for Brenda. Sob.

But then the sun shone so brightly that we decided to drown our sorrows – and possibly the Young Master and the Young Mistress – with a trip to the beach.

So, salmon and cucumber sandwiches made (triangular, no crusts), wicker basket with silver cutlery and monogrammed plates strapped on the rack at the back, travelling rugs over our knees, we chattered excitedly in the back of the Bentley ragtop (our summer car).

We firmly pulled on our leather bunnets and goggles and waited for Gamford to don his cap and slip behind the wheel.

And we were off! For the jolly old seaside, the warm breeze tousling our hair as we wiped the flies off our teeth.

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” the YMs cheered as we rounded the bend to our usual parking spot at the beach at Scremerston.

The locals are always good enough to yield the best parking spaces when they see us arrive, so accommodating of them.

After disembarking, we head down the path to the golden sands, a swirling mass of children and dogs.

It is one of those golden days when the tide is not too far out and not too far in, the waves are breaking at a perfect chest height for jumping into, the sea is clear and the sun beats down deceptively strongly through the balmy breeze.

We quickly forget our hen worries, and the recent seaside torture of Cold-ingham at Easter, and embrace this Golden Time.

On the way home, Gamford drives to a quaint little restaurant where the chefs quickly turn out a delicious selection of what I believe to be traditional American food cooked by Scottish settlers there and now becoming quite popular here.

Very convenient. I’m sure this McDonald’s thing will catch on, especially if it’s cook’s night off.