Since I passed into adulthood (by the clock, if not by inclination) I have ceased to be a fan of beaches.

They have, I have thought, a tendancy to be either too cold or too hot, if too hot often too crowded, are quite often populated by people who look much better in swimming togs than I, who seem to enjoy the , to me incomprehensible, torture of sunbathing, one is in an environment that is inevitably sandy, or worse pebbley and sometimes dirty.
They are also frequently accompanied by excruciatingly cold water, people who can spend hours batting balls at each other, again, and again, and again, or kick balls at each other in the same mindless repetative fashion but worse of all is observing with envy people who are like me but have come properly prepared for the ordeal with chairs (to keep them off the sand) and with umbrellas (to keep them out of the sun) and with good books (to keep them away from everything else)

We are now living too near the amazing continuous Mediterranean beach-which seems to stretch almost uninterrupted from Marseilles to the Spanish border- to ignore it completely.
In the begining of July I made one tentative dip of toe in same and withdrew quickly.
Despite an air temperature of 27C the temperature of the sea was 11C, it made the Atlantic seem positively balmy.

Last week daughter Eileen came to visit and Síle decided to take me in hand.
She bribed me to come with them to Sérignan Plage and sweetened the bribe by reminding me to bring umbrella, chair and book.-, a very good start.
Next pleasing moment was getting to the carpark and discovering that as the French had gone back to school there was a mere scattering of NL, D and GB’s there. This boded well, the beach was not going to be too crowded.
Then the best omen of all, as we passed the life guard station the temperature of the day’s sea was chalked up on the wall.
Instead of a chilly 11 C the sea was going to be a wonderfully tepid 24 C.
My heart rose with the temperature and so we spent a wonderful few hours on the beach, I even wallowed in the milk warm Mediterranean for about thirty minutes , floating on my back like a manatee and rising and sinking with the undulating waves.

I am a late convert, and have been to the beach twice since that date.
Given a deserted strand, a warm sea, a comfortable beach chair, a stout umbrella and a good book there is absolutely nothing wrong with the place at all.
I can’t imagine what I was making all the fuss about.