Post 69: 7 Miles of Smiles
What a great day — from start to finish.
The belated Father’s Day pub meal turned into an unexpected Italian feast after discovering there was no table service at The Anchor on Mondays.
But before the evening’s delights, the day began with a different kind of nourishment — of the emotional kind.
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The local hospice, where I have my weekly counselling, was its usual bustling self. We arrived early and sat in the airy café, quietly hatching a plan to ease through the day — with a little help from some pills and a walk on the beach.
An hour later, I left the counselling room having talked my poor counsellor’s ears off. I couldn’t stop — it was like a dam bursting. Time flew. One unexpected detour in the conversation was “how we met” — which always seems to amuse. The short version: blind-ish date at a workshop Christmas party… engaged within the week. What can I say? When you know, you know.
I avoided the darker corners of the mind and leaned into the good memories. Classic deflection. But I’ll try harder next week — promise.
Back in the café, we finished plotting our afternoon and shared a light lunch, including the biggest rock cake I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t resist. Filled me to the brim, but with a beach walk planned, it felt justified. It was light, tasty, and entirely worth it.
Then came the mission: the pills.
Since the hospice is near the hospital, we popped into CCU to ask if a letter could be issued confirming the new Sotalol prescription — exactly what the GP needs to release my meds. I’d finally run out, and without a steady heart, chemo this week is off the table.
The ever-excellent Dr E appeared like a hero summoned by name. After a few medical questions and kind smiles, he sorted an emergency prescription on the spot. What a star. Truly on our side — calm, competent, and so generous with his time.
Half an hour later, we had the meds in hand. Game over. The advocacy battles of the past week suddenly felt like yesterday’s storm. Free at last.
With that weight lifted, and the sun blazing down, we headed home to feed Mr Vicious earlier than usual — which he thought was the best idea ever. Bellies full (his and ours), we set off for the coast, where our youngest lives.
The beach is less than an hour away on a good run, and we had the whole afternoon to get there, since both kids were working and would be back till late.
We parked right outside their pad, which overlooks the estuary and twice daily tidal mudflats, and set off toward the six-gun redoubt about a mile away. The sea breeze was brisk, and I needed a windsheeter to stay warm walking into it. We found the brown reconstituted plastic boardwalk — a tongue-twister of a path — and strolled along it, nodding at dogs and their humans along the way.
At the fort, My Darling scampered off to admire the view — or so I thought. In truth, she was more excited about finding a public loo. She does love her hydration! Too much in fact.
The redoubt itself is still under repair, so we couldn’t get close, but it was impressive nonetheless. Built to guard the harbour mouth, it now stands quietly above the fishermen who lined the arms of concrete and iron breakwaters below. The sea was still and peaceful. No bent rods, no wriggling catches — just calm water and calm people.
We sat on the pebbles and watched for a while, then headed back the way we came. With the wind at our backs, it was a gentle return. On the boardwalk we spotted little green lizards sunning themselves and darting out of reach of curious dogs and obvious walkers. (See photo.)
The sea shimmered silver, calm and empty. Not quite swimming weather yet — but close. We detoured to the ice cream café, where rum & raisin called our names. My Darling had hers in a cone, mine in a tub. We sat like tourists, sticky-handed and happy, watching the locals rush by. Bliss.
Crossing into town, we discovered the shops were shutting, much to My Darling’s disappointment. She’d hoped for a bit of “happy shopping” (aka charity shop bargain hunting). I find it purgatory — unless there’s a Nordic noir book section.
Instead, we found a quiet spot to sit and unpack some mental baggage — little things we’d each been carrying silently. It helped. The tide was going out, boats were grounding, and we were just… being. Peacefully.
Eventually, the kids arrived, greetings were exchanged, and we mentioned the hiccup with the original dinner spot. No table service = no meal. So, we pivoted. After a drink at a nearby pub that didn’t quite tempt my tastebuds, we landed at a familiar Italian near the old church.
It was fabulous. The food, the service — even the restrooms were plush! I ate far too much but savoured every bite. Great food, great company, easy medical conversations. Just a lovely, long-overdue, relaxed evening out.
No worries.
No appointments.
No advocating.
No AFib.
Just… life.
We clocked seven miles today, and we’re still standing.
Why can’t all days be like this?
