August 4 Conversation On the Beach

So we made a late start from the B&B in Westham on this bright and breezy morning, and walked along to Brewers’ Quay, where we’ve never been before, on the west side of the harbor. The streets and the beach were nearly deserted last night, but not so this morning! We sat on a bench on the esplanade near the carnival and watched the world go by. This man--who said he was a ’Jordie’ come down with his Da to Nuneaton in the Midlands when the Pits in Scotland closed--wandered over to talk to us, commiserating on the cost of fuel and eventually telling stories from the Great Strike in the 20’s. “It was all the Landlord then, wasn’t it? He owned the land and he owned the mines, and the only way me Grandmum survived was credit from the shopkeepers and a little pilferin’. It’ll come to that again. These young lads can’t make enough for their families. It‘s as bad as when Thatcher broke the union. It was one of your laddies came over, helped her, wasn‘t it--McGregor? McReagan? Gave her a billion pounds?” His wife, a taxi driver, brought over his little granddaughter (to stop him talking to strangers, one suspects), and he asked if we have any grandchildren. “Two? And Granddad’s not ruinin’ them now, is he?” He was surprised that we knew where Nuneaton was, and had even been to Arbury Hall. “So you’re here from America studying?” he said. “Intellectuals.” It didn’t slow him down in the stories. “My uncle went to America--where was it?--to Orlando. Got married there and never came back.” I had taken the photo of the beach before he came to talk to us, but recognized him as I looked at the picture.