There was a festival not far away, in a town on the coast. The streets were filled with motorcycles, and teenagers screamed on the falling rides.
I do not go on falling rides. Neither does B., which is convenient, because it meant that we could enjoy some curly fries dripping with oil while sitting on a curb watching the crowd, and then we could ditch the place for the beach.
The hoards in town did not translate to hoards on the beach. The beach was nearly empty, and the sun wavered in and out between the clouds. It was one of those silvery days when there is enough light to make everything shine, but not so much that you are blinded.
We walked, and then we found a little shelter made of driftwood, and we sat in there for a while. I laid back on the coats and felt the sun come out and warm the left side of my face.
I could have stayed there in the sunshine for a very long time, but then the clouds came back and the wind picked up, and it got cold, and we left.