The story of....

the man with the machete 

in Mauritius and a trip to

Dungeness.

Dungeness yesterday

Dungeness October 2013

Yesterday we set off to the Rye Country Fair to see a friend who was exhibiting his classic motorbike and sidecar.  We thought we'd surprise him and his new lady-love.
We were the ones surprised,
 as he was nowhere to be seen.

With heel marks in the grass Ted dragged me 
away from the shepherd hut conversion.
'There's absolutely no way we could get that
in the garden!'

'We could easily; we'd just have to get a crane to lift it in, that wouldn't be a problem!'
Even the guy selling it laughed.
A male conspiracy I decided, you would have thought he would have had an eye to the sale.
In my heart I knew it was just one of my crazy dreams and schemes.

"Let's go to Rye!'

As the car park at Rye was full,
never one to want to queue...

'I know, better still, let's go to
Dungeness!'

I love Dungeness, all thought of the shepherd's hut gone; my dreams of coming into
some money and buying a shack on the windswept pebbles took preference.

Our last visit had been days after
Lettice had died and I wanted to have cheerier memories of my fav place.

Hat firmly plonked on,
pashmina keeping the windy chill away I was a happy girl.

Ted was cheery to, having found out that
the only two flying Lancaster bombers
were planning a fly-over along the coast.

Wrong, they flew over Lydd airport instead.
From the beach they were just specks in the distance.  Driving back from Dungeness,
we saw a Dakota, with wheels spinning we stopped I hopped out and tried to get a photo
this is it...

Alright, I know what you're thinking!

Home we came, with me with a head full
of buying a shack and doing it up.
Just thirty-one miles from home and an ideal
get-away.  Well, a girl can dream.

Getting the bought on the beach,
home-smoked haddock and eggs
out of the car, with plans to make an Omelette Arnold Bennett,
I was happy... it didn't last...
as I went to get my hat out of the back of the car, the pashmina was nowhere to be found.  I came in full of woe, where had it gone, I just couldn't believe what my eyes were telling me. 

Twice we searched the car.


My tears I'm ashamed to say, fell into my mug of tea. I loved that pashmina, silly I know.


In my head I tried to think as to when it had gone; was it when we walked back to the car at the lighthouse?  It had been very windy and I remember wrapping it around twice to secure it.  Was it when I hopped out of the car to get the wonderful action 
shot of the Dakota?
The trouble was I just couldn't remember.  

Ted phoned the pub, to ask if it had been handed in from the car park... No!

I was between a rock and a hard place, should we go back?  If we did and didn't find it that would compound the loss.  If we didn't I would always wonder what if?
Two trips to Dungeness tinged with sadness.

Ted said

'I'm going back!'

We went back with big brave me
a wreck, trying with every fibre of my being to think as to when it had gone, and why I hadn't felt it go.
Every cyclist we passed I scanned them to see if they were sporting a brightly coloured scarf.  Every road I said is this it?
Until eventually the tiny layby where I'd got the 'action shot' hove-to with a bundle forlornly nestling in the gravel.
I couldn't believe my eyes.
Tears of happiness are a totally
different type of salt.

Driving back we marvelled at how it hadn't been blown into a hedge, the underside of a passing car, someone stopping and picking it up.  And we would never have known its fate.

I had no idea just how much I loved that
pashmina bought on Mauritius in 2006.

Every day we sat on the beach, the hawkers would come and try to sell us things.
We always chatted to them, understanding their need to earn a living.
One chap a tall black guy, who looked a handy sort of a feller who could more than look after himself said that he was having trouble  keeping safe, hence the machete.

As promised at the end of the holiday,
Ted bought me the pashmina; the guy was happy that we had been true to our word. And I was
now the owner of a lovely silk pashmina, which over the years has generated many admiring comments.