Fable

We leave, in a hurry. The kids grab teddies and toothbrushes. I do pretty much the same except I also take a favourite book and the dog’s bed.

Although it all happens with a rush this was not totally unplanned for. I have my finances sorted and a friend is lending us her beach house for however long it takes for things to settle down. I can work from anywhere so whatever else we need I can sort it out. 

My kids get it, they know we are off on an adventure that might take us anywhere. For tonight though it is the beach house, where my stalwart neighbour took a few of our spare clothes and stocked the pantry weeks ago. Dog in the back, kids belted in, no looks back, out the gate.

It is inky dark when we leave but a full moon is rising. We chant together, ‘I see the moon and the moon sees me, I love the moon and the moon loves me’. Eventually I turn off the highway onto the dirt road leading to the house. The sand dunes loom up in front of us, threatening to stop us but then the track turns to follow alongside them. The kids are still awake, the dog is dead to the world. 

My headlights pick out the house gates. I turn in and pull up before them, on the start of the gravel drive. The latch is tricky but I manage to open it, all the time telling myself to be patient and to trust in myself.

Back into the car I hop, my happy face on, and up the driveway, weaving between the trees, we go. We reach the front of the house, I leave the headlights on while I get out and then go in search of the keys. They are, as promised, safely tucked under the back door mat.

There are light switches inside the back door, I silently mouth my gratitude to some higher being for finding them. I scurry back to the car and start unloading my little humans and loyal canine. First priority should be to get some sleep but that will have to wait until the cottage is explored.

We open doors, try out beds, investigate the pantry and fridge, find our clothes bags, cook and consume slabs of toast and steaming cups of hot chocolate. 

The dog decides that he is sleeping with the kids in the large, open plan room upstairs. It is cleverly laid out with beds in the corners under dormer windows, bean bags and a small table in the middle, empty bookshelves and wardrobes along the walls.

I mean to start as I intend to continue, with a routine. Pyjamas, toothbrushes, bed and a book - for all of us. The only book we have is the one that I snatched up. It is too old for them I think, no pictures and it is one long, long story. No, embrace the moment, trust their imaginations, trust my storytelling skills. With them settled in their beds, and me on a bean bag in between them, we begin.

Next morning I am up early to let the dog out. Remembering that the gates are still open I pull a jumper over my pyjamas and head down the drive to close them. I marvel about not thinking to close them until now. Returning inside, as there is no sound from upstairs, I make my ritual morning brew and take it outside with me. The cottage is surrounded by verandas so you can always catch the sun, or miss the wind, somewhere along it. You cannot escape the sound of the surf though.

As soon as I sit down I hear voices and footsteps coming down the wooden stairs. I call out for them to come outside, as the morning temperature is surprisingly mild. The dog is curled up at my feet, tail wagging, eager to see them too. I am curious about how well they slept. 

We stretch breakfast out while we talk of what we will do with the day. Our list of things to do, adventures to have, ends up being surprisingly specific; beach walk, sandwiches for lunch, sand dune surfing, dinner around the outside fire pit. Last thing on the list is to take a lantern to the top of the sand dunes and watch the moonrise over the water. A quick bath, brushed teeth, pyjamas, bed and the book are a given.

Our list agreed upon we start our day, and we do all that we set out to. Now my tired, clean children perch up in bed ready for their story. They will be asleep before I finish a page surely. Not so. 

It takes less than a week to finish the book. Devastation reigns until I confess that there are three more books in the series. What does it matter, I ask myself, if I buy the set again. It does not.

We acquaint ourselves with the shopping centre in the nearest town and ask directions to the nearest bookstore. We acquire this particular set of books but we come home with plenty of others too. We stack up the car with all our edible and non-edible treasures and set off, highly pleased with ourselves, back to the beach house and the always waiting dog.

We have choices tonight about what to read. The decision is unanimous - and so we start the second book in the series. I have to insist on ‘lights out’ when I notice how late it has gotten. 

In the small hours of the morning something wakes me. I shake it off but decide to get up and check on the kids anyway. 

Heading towards the kitchen I notice a weak light stealing down the stairs. Tip-toeing upstairs, perhaps I left a lamp on, I come upon quite a sight. The kids are all in one bed with the dog camped on the end. My eldest, not the world’s best reader, has ownership of the book and is tracing the lines with a finger, careful to sound them out as written. The others provide encouragement by keeping their silence.

I could stand here forever watching this scene but I slip back down stairs, smiling all the way, and sneak back into my own bed. I guess that they will not be up early come the morning, adventures are exhausting stuff. 

We settle permanently in our cottage by the beach. My friend decided to sell and, as we agree that this is our hobbit hole now, I buy it.

Ents line our driveway. Our intriguing, laconic neighbour carries the nickname of Strider. The battle of Helm’s Deep often plays out amongst the sand dunes and school is sometimes called Mordor, depending on the day and the teacher.

Those precious books, that remarkable story holds on tight to us.  We do make room for the more modern tales of galaxies far, far away. However it is the fable of the ring that still binds us together, and we do not tire of it.

go to - Blog on behind the story