Excuse me while I wash out the salt from my hair

For a few short blissful weeks I turned feral.

I lived alongside a rocky highland shore where there were more seals than sunbathers.
It was cathartic.
It was healing and it was wonderful.

I spent quality time with my boys - I watched two of them grow and mature into sun-kissed, tousle haired young men with freckles on their noses. Himself and I both calmed down and left our work-stresses behind, found time to talk and more importantly - time to just sit in companionable silence.

We both breathed.

Deeply.

Now we have returned. The holiday washing is - how can I put it...... bordering on solar eclipse level. Not that we were that grubby I hasten to add! No, it's salt crusty jeans and sandy socks. It is bracken scented jerseys and river wet towels and swimming costumes. Wet suits hang out dripping, bodyboards are stacked up waiting to be put away till next year (oh what a depressing thought) and beach-combed treasures lie in bags awaiting rediscovery and placing somewhere special.

Despite all our yearnings to return to our island feral dreams we have returned to normality and our cats. Who are delighted to see us and as I type, Pan is sitting on my knee and purring her little heart out and kneading with pinsharp claws - bless.

I am back.

I will return.

But I need to hang the washing out first............