Although it was many years since he had been there, he could see clearly in his mind’s eye the little seaside town that he and his wife used to visit: the broad sweep of the beach, where the tide always seemed to be out (he had never had a decent swim there), the unpretentious hotel where they always stayed, the shops, and their favourite café. Now he was alone, but he was going there again.
He remembered the villages they drove
through on the way; the crossroads where, more than once, they had taken the
wrong turning; the railway station on the outskirts of the town. And at
last he arrived.
He was delighted to see that it was all just as he remembered. The tide, of course, was out, but there were the rocks on the left-hand end of the beach, and at the far end, the trees where they used to go for walks. The café was still in the same place, and so was the curio shop. He was very pleased to discover that the small bookshop, which has been closed on their last visit, had now reopened. That would provide something to keep him occupied while he waited for his wife: she had not arrived yet, but he was sure that, if he waited long enough, she would come.
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