Background
If John Morgan were a tree, he'd be an oak; others find shelter from his strength. A character firmly rooted, drawing others to his circle of family and friends: under the shadow of the Eden Tree.
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I hoped for a good holiday, one with sun, sand and sea. I wasn't sure about the sex.
My days at Woolacombe, over the years, had always been refreshing as I returned home with renewed energy to face life. Woolacombe possessed all of the ingredients of a holiday in bucketfuls: literally! Add the superb service and good food at The Royal and we were full of anticipation.
When I returned from building sandcastles with Wesley and Alan Liz told me about her talk with Becky.
"I told her it's not fair to lead Tony on. She liked him as a friend, which would not change, but she had feelings for another man. I told her to tell him."
Later that day I saw Becky and Tony go for a walk along the beach while Liz and I played cricket with the lads. The blue overhead sky began to cloud: warm enough to play but not sunbathing weather. Seagulls cawed and dived, landing near to holidaymakers who had discarded crisps or cake nearby, missing the recycle bins. Every evening the gorgeous three mile Woolacombe beach was skirted over by mini ploughs on tractors; leaving the sand pristine.
When the couple returned Tony did not appear crestfallen or downcast. I felt sorry for Tony, and wanted him to know nothing would change regarding his welcome in our home or involvement in the business. Perhaps with his marriage he had lowered his expectations in love. Rebecca looked slightly relieved, but flushed.
"Tony," I said. "I know you have to go home tonight, but leave Alan here, he'll be fine."
Over dinner we were told that the Mossad sergeant had chatted briefly with Becky on Skype. He and our two Jewish friends were definitely coming to the wedding, Becky looked happily content.
"Who is Josh, mum?" Wesley asked scooping raspberry jelly and Neapolitan ice-cream into his eager mouth.
"He's a friend of mum and dad's," she replied kindly.
The boys took advantage of the Royal Hotel's generous custom of allowing several visits to the dessert section of the serving area. I reflected on service over the years: waitresses had been replaced by self-service; but the food remained excellent and plentiful.
"By the way, Dad, he said that his colonel gives his regards," Becky said, waking me from my reflections.
I smiled thinking of Colonel Balak. His slapping of a stuffed-shirt of a detective chief would live with me forever.
April showers "came our way" as the song goes. There were plenty of sights nearby, so we did not abandon the holiday. We visited a Butterfly Farm, and went for a very wet and choppy boat ride from Ilfracombe to look for seals. Wesley and Alan laughed when the spray soaked them and Becky, sitting on the side of the boat.
"You're all wet, mummy!" he squealed with delight, shaking his hair like a dog.
The days flew by at Woolacombe. I heard that on Tuesday James had beaten Sean on the race-track at "The Porsche Experience". I suspected he had left my son win, but would never admit it.
My mobile at my ear I listened to James excitedly telling me, "we had breakfast and Lunch in the Porsche restaurant; the same food that Formula One drivers have. We were looking down from the gallery upon amazingly engineered cars below. Dad, we drove on a special Silverstone track a Boxer, Cayman, Panamera, 911, Cayenne, even on some skid patches. Awesome."
"That sounds amazing, James," I said, "Well done. Just don't try skids yet," and I closed my phone.
On Friday, the final day of our short break, we travelled to Lynmouth. Travelling through the Exmoor countryside I pointed out to Wesley the rolling hills of Lorna Doone's setting. I decided that, after I had finished Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden, I would read Lorna Doone: another of the 'BBC Best 100 books: books to read before you die.
Wesley and Alan were far more interested in the facts of the Lynmouth flood that Becky narrated to them on the back seat of my BMW. Arriving at the seaside village we were all impressed at the swirling clear torrent cascading over huge grey boulders; the waters bounced down the mountain-side towards the sea.
I reflected how easily the flood could build into something horrendous. Marks on the houses bore testimony to the horrific size and depth of the flood, reaching forty feet in height; way above windows. In the museum we read that: "Thirty-four people lost their lives in the Lynmouth flood disaster in August 1952." There were moving accounts and photos in the Museum. One of the poems from a year eight pupil moved us to tears:
"Everyone's possessions,
Were quickly swept away,
And here's the thing I most regret,
My mother died that day.
By Emma "
Overjoyed when throwing rocks into the water, skimming flat ones across the surface, Wesley and Alan were not as impressed with the cliff railway. Lynton & Lynmouth Cliff Railway is a unique Victorian water-powered tram-ride from the heights of the cliffs to the esplanade below. As a girl Becky gazed out of the windows ecstatically looking down into the chasm forty feet below. James would nestle close to his mother. I must admit the first time I rode it I had nerves: horrified that there appeared to be no brakes, and the incline so severe.
