Today, I can mark myself free from alleged book promoters ‘reaching out’ to me because I’ve not found any such emails in my inbox so far today. Then again, it is only five in the morning. This is probably the first time in the last three months that I’ve not received an invite from a dubious-sounding book group in Idaho, or been invited to talk on WXYZ radio. In the past, I’ve even turned down invitations to attend conferences in Buttbang-Nowhere, and rejected the idea that I might like to be featured in a newsletter which reaches the entire population of Monowi, Nebraska. (Population, one. Elsie Eiler, who is the town’s mayor, clerk, treasurer, librarian, and the proprietor of the local tavern, where, I am told, it gets really wild on late nights. (Honest. Look her up.)) So, I have a clear desk, which also means there’s nothing in the inbox to amuse me, sadly, but maybe I’ll get something later.
Amuse? Well, yes. They are better than bills, which seem to come all too frequently these days.
And that brings us on to everyone’s favourite subject; sunbeds. The air is abuzz with speculation. What will the prices be at X this year? How much are they charging over at Y? ‘There are far too many at Z beach, you’re packed in like sardines.’ I have already heard that a couple of times, and it’s a shame. I mean, it’s a shame that some beaches around here are now more about raking in money than they are about preserving what it was that attracted people to them in the first place. Where, 20 + years ago, we’d spend holidays on beaches because of the solitude and scenery they offered, now, I avoid them like Farage supporters. I can think of many things I’d rather do than lie in a row of 20 others who have long ago given up on their bodies, sharing their odours, listening to their packing arrangements and news of Jim’s bowel movements since he ate that funny foreign food. I’d rather listen to a piece by Bartok than lie in the sun trying to read a book. I mean, just getting comfortable takes all the joy out of the experience. On your back? One false move and the sun blinds you, your arms ache, and it’s a pain to turn the pages. On your side? Apart from suffering a dead arm and shoulder after a few minutes, you run the risk of looking up from your Maeve Binchy to find a stranger’s wrinkly backside squeezing out of a swimming costume while they’re bent over trying to move an immovable sunbed. On your front? Again, aching shoulders after no time, and with varifocal glasses… at that distance? Forget it.
There’s also the question of privacy. Years ago, we used to climb down rocks and find a small cove all to ourselves. Now, there are steps down to the same place, and no doubt, within a few years, someone would have built a beach there, and be offering the use of exclusive sunbeds for exorbitant fees. Within a few years, the traditional peace and quiet — the non-commercialism and ‘genuine’ experience visitors come to find on small islands — will have long ago ridden the Noddy train to oblivion. What was a naturally self-sustaining beach in an ancient landscape that’s remained unchanged for thousands of years is now a regimented cantonment of regulated sunbeds (price increases with quality) where people come, undress, lie down, get up, dress, trudge off, and leave their mark. I’m not pulling out one in particular, because they’re all on the same journey, only at various stages of transition from pleasantness to profit. But when I see some, I can’t help thinking of one of those post-war holiday camps, like Dymchurch, where everyone stayed in an identical hut and did identical activities… or was that a more sinister kind of camp? I don’t know…
Anyway… I still don’t see the fun in slobbing out by ‘slabbing’ out like a display in a butcher’s window, with who knows who doing who knows what only an ankle’s distance away. If I were to spend a day by the sea, and it hasn’t happened for roughly ten years, I wouldn’t spend between five and €15.00 for the alleged pleasure. Apparently, you might even expect costlier sunbeds later in the season, and there’s a rumour that, in places, if you’re solo, you have to pay for two, because, presumably, tourists only bathe in pairs. Other places have a much fairer offer, of, say, €10.00 for your (presumably) hosed-down slab, but if you buy a drink, that price is subtracted from your bed bill. I’d go for the Champagne and stay all week if I were you.
Right, while I am in a waffling mood, I shall get on with Chapter 35, and leave you in peace to read your Maeve Binchy.
