Tuesday, September 3, 2013
For reasons I'll touch on later, we had a hastily rearranged family holiday this year to the island of Guernsey, situated in the English Channel close to the French coast. It was the first time I'd been, although my parents honeymooned there in 1957. We followed in their footsteps with two of their seven grandchildren, doing some of the things they talked about: the coastal walks, the island hopping, the harbour at St Peter Port.
We stayed at Cobo Bay on its west coast, with a beautiful sandy beach, rocky headlands and sensational sunsets. My dad tells me that their visit to Cobo was not as blessed with the weather: they had sheltered from the rain in a telephone box as they waited for a bus back to their hotel. He didn't seem unduly disappointed by this discomfort, and nor, I think, would any other romantic, loved up, twenty-something newly wed.
Their 56-year marriage ended a couple of weeks ago when my mother died, and our rearranged trip to Guernsey followed soon after the funeral. The telephone box in this drawing was just along the road from our hotel. Is it on the site of the one they sheltered in? Perhaps not. And anyway, it is quite obviously a modern one. But I drew it because it somehow symbolised the beginning of their life together — a union that has just ended.