Down beside the sea

When I was down beside the sea 

A wooden spade they gave to me 

To dig the sandy shore. 

My holes were empty like a cup. 

In every hole the sea came up 

Till it could come no more.

 Robert Louis Stevenson


Isn't it wonderful how each new generation discovers the same enthralling phenomena at the beach? 

 I used to take photographs like this of my sons right here. Now they have just (yesterday) turned 34 and 31 and they celebrated their birthdays in other ways. One voyaged down the Manchester canal system with friends in an inflatable boat he just bought; the other spent the night under canvas in the Forest of Dean with his wife and baby in the wind and rain.  
I hope they will all be back next weekend to celebrate together.