The Bobcat: “Let’s go to Barry Island!”

This is because the sun is out. If the sun is out The Bobcat is convinced some kind of beach excursion is THE PLAN.  He doesn’t remember other beaches he may have frequented. He only remembers Barry Island.

“Bar-ry IS-LAND! Bar-ry IS-LAND! Bar-ry IS-LAND!”

Ever been to Barry Island?

It isn’t like this.


This is Barry Island.

And I’m an introvert.  And the weather report said that the sun would show up around 0814hrs just to fool everyone, wait long enough for them to venture out for a £4 one-use barbecue, some sausages, some 6% export and an iceberg lettuce and then sod off behind a large black cloud until Thursday.

The Bobcat has been to Barry Island once, Rowdy twice.  On the last occasion the stars had (and I don’t know how) aligned as the weather was nothing short of amazing: the sea was warm enough not to leave me hypothermic and the ice creams had to be guzzled pretty quickly before they slid south and left you licking your elbow.  We made a sandcastle. We climbed rocks. We splashed in rock pools. We made bum-prints in the sand and watched them fill with water.  We buried Daddy in the sand and we made Rowdy into a sand-mermaid.  We watched strangers get hot and disgruntled and pretend not to care about winning mini-golf. 

In Rowdy & The Bobcat terms this is a paradise-like haven.

“How about you go and live with Uncle Cardiff and then he can take you to Barry Island all the time?”*

Bag packed. Sunscreen packed. Raisin snack packed. Little expectant face waiting at the front door for Uncle Cardiff to pick him up.
We went stick collecting instead.  He was thrilled.  And he got an ice cream to shiver with happily under his pacamac.

*This was a done deal. Uncle Cardiff has a cow onesie.