Bunting-trimmed beach hut idyll

Beach hut diary February 2022

… in which Sam Davey is relieved to find her beach hut is still standing, spends even more time dealing with mould, and considers the delights of sea-swimming.

Well, I suppose the most important thing to say is that we still have a beach hut – despite the best endeavours of Dudley, Eunice and Franklin, who have battered the roof, whistled up through the floorboards and done their darndest to send the fascia skimming out across the waves.

Apart from checking that my Hut has not weighed anchor, I’ve not spent much time there in the last few days. The beach is not really the place to be when the winds are gusting at over ninety miles an hour, but up until this weekend, things had actually been progressing rather well.

The Hut is looking more homely now (although I am still having to battle with mould). I’m starting to think that this may be a seasonal issue that I will never be able to resolve during the winter months, no matter how much I scrub and treat the walls with everything from ESK’s very best mould remover to vinegar (which absolutely stinks)

I should point out that I am not obsessed with mould simply because I am a bit of a cleaning freak (anyone who knows me would fall about laughing at the very idea). No, I once had the delightful task of working alongside a team of housing inspectors whose job was to examine local authority buildings to make sure they were fit for human habitation. Under their professional guidance I became something of an expert.

Stachybotrys Chartarum

Mould is not just aesthetically unpleasing, it is also a potential health-hazard, glorying in the rather terrifying Latin name of Stachybotrys Chartarum. It was first discovered in Prague in 1837 and has been recognised as a life-threatener since the 1930s – indeed many people believe dear old Stachybotrys C to be one of the primary causes of sick-building syndrome. It has even been found to be responsible for the death of two black cats, who had been living in a water damaged home in Florida in 2007 – the first documented case of mould poisoning in pets.

I want my hut to be my refuge – for those times when the slings and arrows of outrageous whatsits become increasingly hard to avoid or deflect. The place I retreat to when I need tranquillity and calm. My respite and rejuvenator. The very last thing I need is a load of toxic timber riddled with spores. Having had little permanent success with either commercially produced mould cleaner or a bottle of Sarsons (both of which give off fairly noxious fumes and are unpleasant to work with), I went back to that dear old kitchen stalwart, baking soda, and this has been the most successful remedy so far. Not only does baking soda have a really high ph., it is also odour free and absorbs moisture – making it (so Mrs Beeton assures me)  far less likely that the mould will return.

Other than the mould, I’m actually very pleased with my progress. The floor is now covered with stalwart blue matting and I’ve made a rag-rug out of an old gingham duvet cover. This now sits cheerfully at the front door and makes me think of Calamity Jane (which is always a good thing IMHO).  With my daughter’s help, I’ve made some bunting to string across the entrance, and on normal days – when we are not being subjected to gale-force winds – it flips and flaps in the breeze in a particularly pleasing and jaunty way.

I’ve equipped the hut with a couple of old blankets to provide protection from the elements and, in memory of my grandma and those long-ago summers in Rhyl, I’ve also got hold of a couple of stripy towels – should I ever pluck up the courage to actually go swimming in the sea.

Pretty much whenever I’m at the hut,  I see bathers. Some seem to be just doing it for a bet – they get as close to the waves as they can before shrugging off their trendy dryrobes, dashing into the waves, submerging themselves for about twenty seconds and then returning to the warmth and safety of the shore without really swimming a stroke. However, my beach-hut neighbours, Lisa and Katherine, are made of sterner and more disciplined stuff.

Rain or shine, wind or calm, they swim. They adjust the timing of their daily immersion to fit with the tides, preferring to swim when the tide is coming in, but when there is still some sand exposed on the shoreline.

They’ve taken to having a quick chat if I’m sweeping the pebbles or drinking a coffee whilst looking out across the waves. After we’d spoken a couple of times,  Lisa, a tall, slender woman in her early sixties, told me that she was in remission. Not yet cured, but in another year, all being well, she hoped that her specialist would give her the final all clear.

She told me that she loved to swim because it gave her a real sense of mastery over her own body. She said that she preferred the sea in the winter, on blustery days, when the wind was up and the waves pounded the shoreline. She said it gave her a positive thrill to feel the chill of the waves and the tug of the tide. Katherine, Lisa’s daughter, never says very much, she just stays close.

I’ve watched them as they walk across the stones to the sand, side by side, shoulders brushing against each other; they don’t speak, but sometimes Katherine reaches out and touches her mother’s hand. They leave their towels on the pebbles and walk slowly into the waves, onwards together, steadily and silently until Lisa is ready to dive forward into the waves and begin swimming.

But even Lisa and Katherine have been stopped in their tracks by Dudley, Eunice and Franklin.

You can read Sam’s January Beach Hut Diary entry here.

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