Norwegian Wouldn’t

Slow start to the day after a 7am conference call led , in another small world moment, by son in law Andrew’s cousin James for the Heart Association. We headed west, continuing the logic of our drive to Philadelphia. However, at the fork in the road a few miles from the coast, Blair persuaded me to turn north to Seaside rather than south to Goonie land at Cannon Beach or better still, the uncrowded Manzanita of Tracy’s recommendation . Uncharacteristically, I complied. First we looked for a blonde Norwegian SOM to select a prosecco for lunch . However, despite the sign they don’t make them in Seaside.

However we found Sarah who runs the Naked Winery bar. Her aim is to stop married couples texting and get them to speak to each other.I assured her I wasn’t married to Blair and that seemed to reassure her as we fell on our food and sampled the sparkling, heads down communicating with Calico and Penn.Well, some of the time anyway. Stuffed and quaffed we headed for the beach and I drank in the atmosphere ( for a change), reminiscent of Butlins in 1960s Blackpool if not Chesil Beach, in so many ways, I began to understand why Blair had pushed me north; it was his kind of town.Bathed in nostalgia he pushed on to the beach. The smell of fried food, the damp, the evocative architecture and the chilly wind had him back reflecting on the joys of a postwar English summer. There was even a dodgems.

At last we hit the beach: one problem, where was the sea?Given the name of the town and some distant rumbles, it had to be around? At last, like the Greeks at the Helispont, we spotted it : thalassa, thalassa!No paddling in the Pacific by Blair this time but as I sent him to fetch the car – such an obliging chap – I spotted a sign for final libation:Served up by the charming local Alyshea it set us on our way , prepared for the stunning beauty of our entry across the causeway into Washington state.