Anyway, on Saturday, we went out to Salt Creek. It was a miserable, wet morning, cold and dank and windy. Just the sort of weather that is best for looking at tide pools. So we did. Ellie picked up rocks, which occupied her time.
Margaret managed to fall in the water not 5 minutes after we got to the beach, so she was a little damp and muddy, but game for anything.
Provided, that is, that "anything" involved messing about in the mud.
She was wearing more clothes before she fell in the water, and it should be noted that we tried to get her into a coat, but she refused.
Ellie, meanwhile, gave up.
You may not be able to tell from this picture, but it started raining. So we quit and went to get something to eat.
Something small and light, that might just sustain life. Nothing too much.
Those of you who were with us on this trip and form a large portion of my readership might notice that I edited out the fall in the bunkers and the skinned knee and the accidentally misplacing either Joyce or ourselves and Margaret's subsequent fever. Let this be a lesson to you in both the vagaries of autobiography, and the historian's emplotment of history. Or don't. Whichever you want.