Chapter 6
The keys were in Will’s hands. Two of them hung on an old-fashioned leather fob, both for the front door, apparently. They’d just left the solicitor’s office in the main square in Alnwick town, and were heading back to Will’s car.
‘That’s it.’ He grinned. ‘I’m the proud owner of a beach hut.’
‘Or a “beach bungalow” as Mr Wright advised is the appropriate name,’ added Cath.
‘Oh yes, and for the girls. I bet they can’t wait to see it, too.’
‘Ahm, I haven’t actually mentioned it to them, yet. Wanted to see what kind of condition it’s in, before I go getting them all excited about it.’ He seemed cautious in sharing this news with them, but perhaps he just wanted it to look the part before surprising them, and fair enough.
‘Yeah, perhaps that’s wise.’ The excitement about the location had perhaps meant she’d got her rose-tinted glasses on.
The drive from Alnwick to Low Newton-by-the-Sea was a journey of winding lanes, the occasional sharp bend, hawthorn hedges and stone walls, with the odd tight squeeze past a touring caravan or tractor.
As they neared the sea, with glimpses of it shimmering a metallic blue-grey on the horizon, there was a sense of anticipation building.
‘Nearly there.’ Will glanced across at her momentarily, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.
‘We are.’ Cath gave a hopeful smile.
‘I wonder what’s it like?’
‘We’ll soon find out.’
They travelled through the upper village, passing The Joiners Arms pub, on past the little corrugated steel church of St Mary’s, and were now coming up to the brow of the hill where Cath well knew the view that always took your breath away for a second.
Looking out as the road dipped down the hill, ending at the original white-painted fishermen’s cottages, the view then stretched along the golden-sand bay which curved in and on in an arc to the far headland where the ruins of Dunstanburgh Castle stood in rugged fingerlike peaks of majestic decay.
This trip really did feel momentous. Very different from coming here for a stroll, or a pint at the historical and quaint Ship Inn which nestled in the corner of the three-sided square of coastal cottages. Ooh, their new ‘local’ to be.
With the huts literally being built in the middle of the marram grass dunes, there were no parking spaces next to them, nor even a road or track to take you directly to them in a vehicle.
Will had been advised by the solicitor to use a small private parking area down a narrow lane, that was behind the pub and before the dunes.
‘Okay, so this is it.’
They pulled up, and got out of the vehicle to a waft of cool sea breeze and a mostly cloudy sky. April showers were looming once again on the horizon, but nothing could quell the sense of anticipation.
Cath took out her bag. Being ever practical, she’d packed a small rucksack with a flask of coffee and a couple of shortbread biscuits, plus a loo roll for good measure. The hut wouldn’t have been used for years, and who knew what condition it might be in, after all.
They’d learned today that the only utility available at the bungalow was water, and even that was only supplied for six months of the year through the spring and summer seasons – they were lucky it was mid-April, then.
No electric, no oil tanks, only gas bottles where they’d been fitted, and their bungalow didn’t at present have that facility.
There was, apparently, a small log burner for heating purposes within the property, and that was it.
It’d be candlelight if they ever decided to stay, Cath had mused in the solicitor’s office, or perhaps less romantically, their phone torches.
‘Let’s go, then,’ Cath responded, feeling a bit like a child on a treasure hunt as Will took out and unfolded a sketchily drawn map of the various buildings, by which to locate his plot. There was a rough path heading in to the dunes, which trailed beside a large marshy pond area.
Cath’s hopes for this coastal haven filled her thoughts, as they made their way along the track and then weaved through the spiky marram grass of the dunes.
Will’s beach bungalow; she couldn’t help but feel that this was going to be a part of their new adventure as a couple.
It’d make a fantastic little hideaway for day trips.
And if they managed to get it shipshape, perhaps even the odd overnighter.
A place where they could listen to the surf rolling in, lying in each other’s arms …
the dusky-peach glow of the morning sun rising over the ruins of the castle on the distant shores of the bay.
She finally had the chance to dream again.
Ahead was a large greenish-grey clapboard-style renovated hut. Oh, and they’d even installed solar panels on the roof. ‘Look at that Will, solar panels an’ all. Looks fancy this one.’
‘Doesn’t it just. And yeah, that’s a good idea for an electric source. Might have to find out more about that.’
They passed another two dark-brown wooden bungalows that appeared well maintained. And a more traditional-looking one, which on closer inspection appeared to be covered in dark-greenish flaps over all the walls, that oddly reminded her of an armadillo’s skin.
Will paused for a second, screwing his face up as he read the map, trying to work out the bungalow numbers. ‘Well, these are twenty-four and twenty-five so we’ve a little way to go. Right then, this way.’ He marched on.
The trail they apparently needed, snaked its way into a bracken and bramble patch.
He stamped down and held back what he could to clear the pathway for Cath, but the spiky branches still managed to snag at their coats.
Cath made a mental note to bring her secateurs next time, and trim back a decent path for them.
They came out into a clearing of dune area to find a single wooden hut positioned on a rise with a lovely porch and covered front deck, and a gorgeous view of the bay.
She could picture the owners sat on the two wicker chairs there, perhaps with a contented dog at their feet, after a long stroll on the beach, hmm, yes, with a glass of wine to hand.
But this wasn’t Will’s. Two further huts were nestled in the patch behind them, as they could make out the black of their corrugated metal roofs.
Will shook his head, and gestured for them to move on.
Onwards again, crikey, Will’s place must be a right trek.
‘Can’t be far now.’ His voice carried back to her on the salty breeze. He scanned the map once more.
Then just ahead and set slightly back from the rise where the dunes led down to the beach, was a fairly large … and oh, very dilapidated-looking … well, all you could describe it as was a shed. And, nothing at all like the smartened-up garden shed she had at home.
Cath caught up with Will. The two of them stood together and stared.
Oh my, how her fanciful dreams had just been dashed.
OMG, compared to all the other buildings they’d just walked by …
this, well … words failed her. It was built of brown-weathered wood, that had possibly lost its stain, and oh, some of its slats, many years ago.
‘Ah,’ Will managed.
‘Hmmm,’ Cath added mutely.
They remained frozen for a couple more seconds, trying to smother their disappointment. Perhaps they’d been rather overoptimistic in their expectations.
‘It’s not great, is it?’ admitted Will.
‘Well, that’s the understatement of the year,’ responded Cath wryly.
‘It has potential …’ Will arched an eyebrow.
Cath merely raised both of her eyebrows in response.
They had to chuckle.
‘Well, we have keys, we may as well go in.’ Will gingerly crossed the front deck area that faced the sea, noticing that several of the wooden boards were rotten and had sunk.
Reaching the pale-blue peeling-painted door, which was central to the bungalow, and had seen better days, Will took a breath, steeling himself.
Ironically, a key seemed hardly necessary, with the amount of rotten timber on the frame, one strong push and you’d most likely be in.
The lock was rusty, and Will struggled for a while to free the bolt.
Then, with a shoulder barge, it gave way.
With a poof of stale-scented and mildewed air, and a cloud of sandy dust, they were in.
With a sense of trepidation, they entered. What were they about to discover?!
They walked into a large living space, the walls still the original brown wood, the same as the outside.
Concerningly, the odd crack of light came through the rotten slats.
Some artwork made of shells which had been stuck on driftwood – Cath guessed from the beach here – still hung there.
Cath wondered who had made them. There was a faded-red sofa with two sunken floral-patterned cushions, set before the log burner which had grey ash and a half-burnt log inside.
An ancient sideboard had a couple of old photos – Will picked one up, pointing out his father’s cousin – along with a boxed game of Scrabble, a soggy pack of cards and several paperbacks with mildewed edges.
Cath pulled out a Georgette Heyer classic and a book on bird spotting.
It was like the world had stopped here decades ago.
Fragments left from another life, another time.
Against the far back wall an old ‘fitted’ unit acted as the kitchen area, with a bucket to one side, rather worryingly positioned, it seemed, to catch drips from the ceiling.
In the unit, there was one drawer with a cupboard below, painted in the same pale blue as the door, with a frilly-edged curtain on a wire drawn across below the stainless-steel sink.
Above the sink, was a white-tiled area. And on the wall above that was an old-fashioned wooden plate rack, still holding a few aged items of crockery and a traditional brown teapot.
Cath’s nan used to have one just like it.