Page 26

The closer we get to the coast, the more everything seems to open up, like the world’s loosening its grip.

The road winds through the hills in lazy curves, stitching the land together with tarmac and blind corners.

Every bend reveals something new—lakes flat as poured glass, trees pressed close to the banks, ancient and thick, their branches dripping in late-summer green.

Sunlight flickers through the canopy above, catching the dashboard in bursts of gold before vanishing behind leaves like it changed its mind.

Naomi’s got half her body out the window, hair everywhere, yelling that she’s absolutely one with nature now, while Mia and Claire take turns arguing over who’s spotted more sheep and trying to outdo each other’s photo angles.

And then the hills fall away.

Coral Point rolls into view like it’s been waiting for us.

This absurd little postcard of a place. The road spills us out into narrow, cobbled streets, cottages stacked like they’ve been there forever, painted in soft, impossible colours.

Turquoise. Lemon yellow. Coral, obviously.

Every windowsill bursts with flowers, like the buildings are trying to out-bloom each other.

The air changes, too. Thicker, saltier, threaded with seaweed, warm stone, and something sweet I can’t place. Maybe fudge. Or fresh bread. Or just the kind of sugar that clings to the air in places like this.

Beyond the rooftops, the ocean stretches wide and dark, the horizon smudged with distant hills. The waves chase each other in a rhythm I feel somewhere low in my ribs.

It’s messy. Weathered. Rough in all the ways that feel honest. And God, it’s beautiful.

As we roll into town, Naomi leans dramatically out of the window and yells, “WE HAVE ARRIVED!” like we’re about to liberate a small nation on horseback.

No one pays her the slightest bit of attention, which somehow only makes her more pleased with herself.

Mia and Claire cheer from the back seat, craning to spot a gelato shop or a beach hut with decent Wi-Fi as we roll past a weathered wooden sign that reads Coral Point Cove , the paint chipped, the letters faded by sun and salt.

Just beyond it, we pass a battered old minibus parked half on the verge, the kind that’s survived one too many chaotic journeys. The side panel’s dented, one hubcap’s missing, and someone’s scratched ‘ MV was ‘ere’ on the back door.

I blink, a half-smile tugging at my mouth. It feels like a place time has forgotten. And maybe that’s the point.

The road narrows even more, threading between knotted old trees and scrubby wildflowers before tipping us out by a quiet corner of the shoreline.

I ease the car onto the gravel drive, the tyres crunching as I pull up outside our cabin, just a few steps from where the beach gives way to tufts of grass and pale, weather-beaten sand.

The cabin itself is small, tucked between two crooked pines.

It rises with a peaked roof and wears its soft, silvery-grey wood like a weathered coat, its sun-bleached shutters framing wide glass windows that catch the light.

The salt-kissed air softened and shaped it into something both rustic and effortlessly elegant.

And then, silence. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just peaceful. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask anything from you. It just lets you be.

Naomi throws her door open like she’s arriving on the set of her own beach-themed soap opera, arms stretched wide. “Okay, ladies. Let’s unpack and do something that costs too much and contributes nothing to our personal growth.”

“Shopping?” Claire suggests.

“Shopping!” Naomi confirms.

We spend the rest of the late afternoon doing the most cliché tourist things imaginable, and I love every second of it.

We drift through a string of tiny shops that all smell of sandalwood and pot-pourri, where every shelf is overflowing with hand-poured candles that cost more than my phone bill.

Shell necklaces hang from driftwood displays, T-shirts scream terrible puns like ‘ Seas the Day’ , and somewhere in the corner, there’s a display of wind chimes clanging in the breeze.

Naomi tries on at least six pairs of novelty sunglasses, including a pineapple-shaped pair she insists are weirdly flattering , before abandoning them all with a sigh.

Meanwhile, Mia and Claire find matching shark tooth bracelets and behave like they’ve discovered ancient treasure. They're already planning to wear them forever , which, in teenage time, means until Tuesday.

I let Naomi talk me into a hoodie that says ‘I Heart Coral Point’ in glittery letters.

“I cannot wear this,” I say, studying it as I hold it up.

“You absolutely can,” she fires back. “And you will. It’s giving unhinged coastal mum and aunt. I’m obsessed!”

God, give me strength.

We wander along the seafront, ice creams in hand, and find a spot to perch on the boardwalk. The afternoon sun bounces off the water, turning the fishing boats into lazy silhouettes bobbing in the glittering blue.

By the end of the afternoon, I’m sun-drunk and smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. It’s like today exists in a world of its own.

Then, as we’re strolling past a fish and chip shop, something flaps against the window, catching the corner of my eye. A poster taped to the glass. Sun-bleached around the edges, corners curling in the breeze.

End of Summer Beach Party!

Music · Food · Bonfire

“One Last Night of Summer Magic”

My feet drag to a halt.

There’s something about the messy lettering and the promise of music and fire under the stars that tugs at something low in my chest.

Naomi, ever the bloodhound for a vibe shift, doubles back. She follows my gaze, reads the poster once, and whips her head toward me with a look of sheer triumph.

Her grin is criminal. “Say. Fucking. Less.”

“Mia…” I protest, half-laughing, half-hoping for a miracle.

But before I can even finish the sentence, Mia waves me off as though she’s the adult and I’m the one who needs supervision. “We want a night in, Mum,” she declares from behind a fistful of shopping bags. “Movie marathon. Popcorn. Zero adult supervision.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re thirteen, not seventeen.”

Mia just grins, unbothered. “Semantics.”

I blink, trying to process the role reversal of my thirteen-year-old daughter inadvertently telling me to go out and have fun. “I don’t know…”

Naomi is already sliding her sunglasses off dramatically. “Ellie,” she says, placing both hands on my shoulders. “I love you. But I am officially staging an intervention.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” She gestures to the girls. “They will be fine. We’ll make a stop at the rental place for snacks and DVDs like it’s 2006.”

Mia raises an eyebrow from the back seat. “We have Netflix, you know.”

“Please. You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced a local DVD rental shelf organised entirely by vibes and guesswork.” Naomi turns her attention back to me then. “Plus, they both have phones. The cabin is, what, a spit’s throw from the beach?”

“Stone’s throw,” I correct.

Claire nods. “Spit’s probably more accurate.”

Naomi ignores her. “Come on. When was the last time we went to a beach party together?”

I open my mouth.

“Exactly!” she cuts me off before I can even say anything. “It’s been years. And we have just accomplished major life goals. We qualified. I…” she pauses. “Successfully flirted with two hot paramedics this week. We deserve some fun.”

“What happened to the junior doctor?”

She brushed me off. “Old news!”

I’m already smiling, even as I shake my head. “You’re relentless.”

There’s a stubborn part of me that wants to resist. To stay safe. Predictable. But another part says maybe it’s time to step off the track I’ve been running on for years. Let go. Just for one night.

“Fine,” I say, laughing despite myself.

“YES!” Naomi fist-pumps the air.

“MOVIE NIGHT!” Mia yells, throwing both her arms in the air like she’s casting a spell.

Claire claps, and I sigh in defeat. But I’m still smiling.

Before Naomi and I abandon the next generation to their fortress of sweets and spreadsheets, we make one crucial stop: the local rental shop.

It’s like stepping into a time capsule. The place smells of dust and vanilla air freshener, the kind that’s meant to smell inviting but mostly smells like regret.

Battered DVD cases, hand-scrawled staff picks, and faded movie posters cram the narrow aisles.

There’s a flickering neon sign above the counter that reads Be Kind, Rewind .

Fighting a losing battle against the twenty-first century.

The man behind the till looks like he’s been here since the dawn of cinema and might be the last line of defence in the battle against streaming.

Mia and Claire dive into the snack aisle like gremlins released into the wild.

“We need a classic,” Claire announces, clutching a jumbo bag of popcorn.

Mia holds up The Parent Trap triumphantly, her eyes shining. “Sold!”

I press a hand to my chest, mock-sniffling. “Proud parenting moment.”

At the till, we dump a frankly alarming pile of snacks: sour worms, chocolate buttons, three different types of crisps, and something labelled “cola-flavoured drink.”

The man doesn’t even flinch. Just raises a slow eyebrow. “You havin’ a party?” he asks in a gravelly drawl.

“Movie night,” I say. “Two teenagers.”

He gives a slow, solemn nod. “Godspeed, love.”

We drop the girls back at the cabin, their arms already overloaded with snacks and DVDs like they’re prepping for a three-day siege.

Mia and Claire set to work, burrowing into the sofa with blankets and building a snack fort so structurally sound it could survive a coastal storm. The Parent Trap menu is already looping on the TV, and the smell of buttered popcorn fills the small living room.

I linger in the doorway, arms crossed, trying—and failing—not to fuss.

“Phones on,” I say, giving them both a look. “Not on silent. If anything feels off, or if you need anything, even if you just hear a weird noise… you call me. Got it?”