Page 38 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

*

The shop does turn out to be perfect, with a large selection of wool. Alex comes inside this time and brings Bardo with her. The shop assistant makes a huge fuss of him and he rolls on his back to have his tummy rubbed. He doesn’t do that for me.

Alex chooses a ball of moss green wool for me. She says it’s the colour of all the miles of hedging we’ve passed. I’m beginning to think this blanket might be a bit of a mess, but maybe I can unify the colours with a complimentary border when I’m done. We walk back to where I’ve parked the van and climb inside.

‘Come on then,’ she says. ‘I need a huge coffee and then I want to dip my toes in the ocean.’

‘I can offer you the Irish Sea if that’ll do.’

‘Aye, that will do nicely,’ she says.

*

The beach at Southport is beautifully sandy and stretches as far as I can see. The tide is out way beyond the end of the pier. With the sun glinting across the expanse, it’s impossible to see where the beach meets the water. I park over the road next to a branch of the restaurant Frankie and Benny’s and we take a couple of camping chairs from the van with us.

‘We’re going to have to find some shade for Bardo,’ I say.

‘Agreed,’ says Alex. ‘Let’s head for the pier.’

The promenade is busy with weekday holidaymakers and day trippers. Living in a seaside town, this is commonplace to me, but Alex seems surprised at the number of people turning up to the beach in the great weather we’ve been enjoying.

‘Inverness is touristy and busy,’ I say to her after she makes a comment about the crowds.

‘Not the bit that I lived in,’ she says.

‘Lived? Have you moved house in the few days you’ve been with me?’ I laugh.

‘Slip of the tongue,’ she says.

When we’re onto the sand it doesn’t matter how many tourists are about, as there’s miles of the stuff and we chuck our chairs down in the shade of the pier. I lay a blanket down for Bardo and fill a plastic bowl with water from a bottle I’ve carried.

‘You’re very resourceful, aren’t you,’ Alex says, sitting down in her chair and pulling her hat over her eyes. ‘I’m going to sleep until the sea comes to find me,’ she says.

‘I’m going to walk to the shops and get that coffee you were after and maybe some sandwiches. Any requests?’

‘Anything,’ she says, lazily, lifting the corner of her hat. Then she hesitates for a second before saying, ‘and thanks, Connie. I’m actually having a really nice time.’ Then she drops the hat back.

The sun is managing to dodge the clouds and we spend a couple of pleasant hours on the beach. I buy large coffees and sandwiches from Subway and we discuss the next step on our road trip. Alex has put a two-hour cap on any drive now and chooses Bala on the edge of Snowdonia National Park as a great place to stop on our way to Aberystwyth. I pick up the blanket and begin crocheting, catching up with the apricot wool from York. I hold the pink and the new moss green up against it and they actually sit well together with the colours from the previous rows. Alex has her legs stretched out, the hem of her skirt pulled up over her knees and her head resting back on the edge of the chair, eyes closed again. Bardo has had a run and a swim, and he’s now sparko in the shade underneath her chair.

‘Look at us,’ I say. ‘Who would have thought all those years ago that we’d be sitting on a beach, aged seventy, crocheting.’ I laugh, but Alex doesn’t. She looks thoughtful though.

‘I did, Connie; I always thought we’d be doing exactly this.’

‘And how right you were,’ I say, determined not to bring down the mood despite my thoughtless comment. It seems that no matter where we are and how comfortable we seem in each other’s company, we’re only ever a few, ill-thought words away from disquiet. What we need, I think, is a full-blown row, but I’m not going to start it. Alex gets out of her chair and begins to walk towards the sea. The tide has been steadily coming in so she doesn’t have too far to go.

‘I want to see three more rows by the time I get back, unless you want to swim?’ she says.

I need to pick up a swimming costume somewhere soon. This is the second opportunity for a swim and I can’t believe I didn’t think to pack one. Then again, I wasn’t expecting to be swimming in Peterborough. That seems like a very long time ago now.

‘No, you go ahead; I’ll carry on with this,’ I say.

I watch her as she walks down to the water’s edge, her red hair glorious in the sun, her skirt hitched into her knickers. She steps into the sea and shrieks as the cold water splashes up her legs. Then she stands and stares out towards the horizon. I’d give anything to know what she’s thinking right now, but I’ll have to content myself and assume she’s as happy as she says she is, because I don’t think I’ve been so happy in decades. I turn my attention back to my project.

By the time we’re ready to leave I have a few rows completed with love from Lancashire.

19

Driving over the border into North Wales gives me a little thrill. Having spent a couple of years living and working in the pretty market town of Ruthin, more than five years ago, it’s so lovely to be back. The countryside opens up around us and the scenery is stunning. I’ve always been captivated by the rugged mountains and spring-green hills peppered with grazing sheep, where the often gloomy sky meets the land and then the beauty of a shaft of sunlight breaks through. I’ve driven this road so many times before – in wind and pelting rain, in snow and bleak frost, but to drive it in the sunshine with Alex next to me is perfect.