We opened our campsite in 1973 in a steep valley leading down to the sea, with its own wide shingle beach that catches the Atlantic swell and is ideal for surfers. We terraced the slopes, put in electric points, and hoped to make some money before the bank got too impatient. The Smiths were among our first visitors. At first the family came together; Mr and Mrs Smith and their two teenage sons. They pitched a huge old-fashioned tent with great precision, then Mum and Dad sat on the beach in all weathers while the boys rode the surf from dawn to dusk. Mr Smith's scruffy mongrel dog sat on a blanket and watched proceedings. We became fond of the family, who were polite, helpful, and good-humoured. We looked forward to their visits, and our chats in the small bar we built in the second year after we opened the site.
Time moved on, and the Smith boys grew up and flew the nest. Mr and Mrs Smith bought a small caravan instead of the huge tent, and continued to visit us several times a year, accompanied by a succession of small undistinguished mongrel dogs. They remained among our favourite guests, and Mr Smith's gentle humour defused many an argument among his fellow campers.
About three years ago Mrs Smith started to look poorly to us, and my wife ventured to ask about her health. After she had seen the couple to their favourite pitch, I found her in the office with her head on the desk. It seemed that Mrs Smith was terminally ill, but she and her husband were determined to carry on with their lives and enjoy camping together for as long as they could. They bought rather a smart motorhome, so that Mrs Smith would be spared the upheaval of setting up a caravan, but other than that they seemed to carry on much as usual.
The last time we saw Mrs Smith alive was Easter of last year, when she looked so frail that a puff of wind could have taken her away, but she still smiled and came for her evening glass of sherry without fail. In August, Mr Smith telephoned to confirm his usual pitch for the Bank Holiday weekend, but he had an unusual request. His wife, he said, had died in June, and he wanted to bury her ashes in the little belt of trees we planted at the head of the valley on the landward side of the campsite. He would quite understand, he said, if we preferred not to give permission, but his dear wife had had the happiest times of her life on our campsite and it had been her wish to be laid to rest under the trees where she could smell the sea. I didn't know what to say, but my own wife took the telephone firmly out of my fingers and said there would be absolutely no problem. After she hung up I thought of a dozen reasons why this wasn't a good idea, but the tears in her eyes were enough reason to forget my misgivings.
As it turned out, those misgivings were unfounded. On the Bank Holiday weekend my wife had a quiet word with all the other guests as they arrived, and nobody had any objection. Far from it. Most knew the Smiths, and when the motorhome drew up on its accustomed pitch on Friday afternoon, Mr Smith had a steady stream of visitors. He came to the office late in the day with a bemused smile on his face. It seemed that his fellow campers wished to join him in remembering his gentle wife, and he wondered if we had any objection to a small ceremony in the wood. He said he had thought to bury the urn quietly and secretly, so as not to disturb others, and was much touched to find out how many wished to offer their support. Of course, we agreed, and the next morning we found ourselves in a group of about twenty people, many of whom carried flowers, as the old man dug a hole in the soft loam with his bare hands, and laid his wife to rest under a rowan tree.
In the following months, Mrs Smith's last resting place became something of a phenomenon. One regular visitor turned up a week after the Bank Holiday with a teak bench strapped to the roof of his car. He said it was an unwanted present, and he thought it would be nice for people to be able to sit down in the wood. Then another family brought a bag of flower bulbs. Someone else turned up with a flowering shrub. And so it went on... By the end of that year the little coppice had become perhaps the prettiest place in the whole valley and was somewhere all our regular campers loved. Mr Smith himself, and his little dog, Rags, were regular visitors, and the old man's pleasure in that quiet spot was something in which we took great pride.
Mr Smith and his dog spent Christmas and the New Year with us, and seemed content in each other's company. Last thing every night, they walked around the campsite, then went to say goodnight to Mrs Smith, an old man and an old dog, with a smile and a polite greeting for everyone.
In August, we had a sad telephone call from the eldest Smith son. His father, he said had been very poorly, and, to make matters worse, Rags had died. The old man, it seemed, was fretting about Rags' ashes. He had wanted to scatter them near where Mrs Smith rested, but his health was so poor it seemed unlikely he would be able to get here to do it. I volunteered to scatter Rags' ashes myself feeling it was the least I could do for our old friend. Smith junior almost cried with relief, and a few days later the postman delivered a strongly packed parcel. That night, my wife and I secretly scattered the ashes among the trees and shrubs. I'll admit that a few tears were shed, and as we walked back to our house, we were both almost certain we would never see Mr Smith again.
But we were wrong...
We have a single static caravan, sited on the edge of the courtyard by the bar and lounge. It is principally for the benefit of our own increasingly large tribe of children and grandchildren, but also available for hire to a few selected customers. We don't usually let it out for Christmas and the New Year, as it tends to be be in family use, but this year, all our tribe were to head overseas for the festive season, and it looked as if the caravan would be empty. Then we got a call out of the blue from Mr Smith. He was now much better, he said, but no longer able to drive, and he was wondering if the caravan would be available for Christmas. If we agreed, his younger son and his family would bring him down and spend Christmas with him. They would have to return to work on December 28, he explained, but his elder son could pick him up directly after the New Year. He sounded so much like his usual self that it was hard to believe he had been ill, and we agreed with alacrity.
Christmas week came, and the Smiths filled our caravan to overflowing. The old man himself looked much as he had always looked, if a little thinner than we would have liked. It seemed sad to see him without his dog, but he soon acquired a canine companion in the shape of a half-trained spaniel belonging to a young family called Richardson. He spent hours in the dog field, with the family and the spaniel, training both canine and humans with patience and humour. December 28 arrived and his family drove away in their chunky four-wheel drive, leaving the old man alone. I dropped in an hour or two after they had gone to find the Richardsons and their dog had got there before me. Mrs Richardson was cooking, Mr Richardson was hoovering, the children were playing cards with Mr Smith, and the dog slept quietly on a blanket.
I effaced myself, glad to see our old friend was far from lonely. Mr Richardson followed me out. 'I'm grateful and glad' I said 'that you have befriended the old boy'. 'Not as glad as I am' he replied. 'Mr Smith is amazing. In a few short days he has transformed our dog from a hooligan into an estimable family pet. In addition to which, this is the first holiday we've had in three years where the kids have emerged from behind their computers to do more than eat. No, it's us who should be grateful.'
In the next couple of days, Mr Smith became absorbed into the Richardson family, and together they seemed a very happy unit, even hosting a party for their fellow campers on the eve of New Years Eve.
The great night rolled around and our little bar and lounge were buzzing, filled with campers and friends from the village. My wife had put on a splendid buffet, and I was kept on my toes filling glasses. Just before midnight, I had a moment of leisure to look around me. I spotted our old friend in a comfortable chair in the corner with the youngest Richardson fast asleep on his lap. He looked a contented man, and I felt glad for him.
After the singing of Auld Lang Syne the crowd thinned somewhat, and I closed the bar. The Richardsons took their sleepy babies home to bed, but Mr Smith remained in his seat, and was joined by a couple of older men, one of whom was waving a bottle of single malt whisky. It looked as if we were all in for a long night.
We didn't clear everybody out until around three o'clock, and I sent my wife off to bed, saying I'd lock up and be with her shortly. I locked the bar, checked the gates, locked the office and climbed wearily up the stairs. When I got into our bedroom, I found my wife had crashed face-down on the bed. I removed her shoes and pulled the duvet over her. Before falling into bed myself, I wandered out onto the balcony to breathe the cool night air and clear the whisky fumes from my head. I was surprised to see two people wandering along the roadway leading from the back of the site to the beach. I couldn't see their faces, but there was something familiar about the tall figure of the man and his slender companion. As I watched them, I heard the woman call 'Rags, Rags', and a small dog bulleted out of nowhere to join the couple. I banged my head with the heel of my hand, I had to be dreaming. I must have had too much of that single malt. It was just that old Mr Smith had been so much in my mind. I closed my eyes for an instant, and when I opened them again, there was nobody to be seen. I turned away from the frosty night, and, closing the doors, fell into bed and, almost instantly, into a deep, exhausted sleep.
Morning came, and I forgot all about my odd moonlight experience in the flurry of day-to-day tasks. I had mucked out the bar and was just sitting down to a much-needed cup of coffee, when Mr Richardson came into the office looking worried. It seemed that Mr Smith was due to go out to lunch with the family, but they couldn't raise him. Mrs Richardson had taken the children back to their own caravan, and he had come to find me in the hope I had some spare keys. I collected the spares and, with Mr Richardson at my heels, walked across the courtyard to the caravan. Halfway there, my early morning vision came back to me with startling clarity. My heart sank.
I unlocked the door and we went in together. All was tidy and calm, and Mr Smith sat at the end of the settee. For a moment I thought he was only sleeping, but as I got closer I realised this was his last sleep. His eyes were closed, and he looked both serene and happy. The caravan smelled like my wife's herb garden on a summer afternoon and I realised that the old man held a sprig of rosemary in full flower in his right hand. His left hand, however, was outstretched, and laid caressingly on a circular dent in the cushion next to him where a trail of tiny muddy paw prints came to an end...
We opened our campsite in 1973 in a steep valley leading down to the sea, with its own wide shingle beach that catches the Atlantic swell and is ideal for surfers. We terraced the slopes, put in electric points, and hoped to make some money before the bank got too impatient. The Smiths were among our first visitors. At first the family came together; Mr and Mrs Smith and their two teenage sons. They pitched a huge old-fashioned tent with great precision, then Mum and Dad sat on the beach in all weathers while the boys rode the surf from dawn to dusk. Mr Smith's scruffy mongrel dog sat on a blanket and watched proceedings. We became fond of the family, who were polite, helpful, and good-humoured. We looked forward to their visits, and our chats in the small bar we built in the second year after we opened the site.
Time moved on, and the Smith boys grew up and flew the nest. Mr and Mrs Smith bought a small caravan instead of the huge tent, and continued to visit us several times a year, accompanied by a succession of small undistinguished mongrel dogs. They remained among our favourite guests, and Mr Smith's gentle humour defused many an argument among his fellow campers.
About three years ago Mrs Smith started to look poorly to us, and my wife ventured to ask about her health. After she had seen the couple to their favourite pitch, I found her in the office with her head on the desk. It seemed that Mrs Smith was terminally ill, but she and her husband were determined to carry on with their lives and enjoy camping together for as long as they could. They bought rather a smart motorhome, so that Mrs Smith would be spared the upheaval of setting up a caravan, but other than that they seemed to carry on much as usual.
The last time we saw Mrs Smith alive was Easter of last year, when she looked so frail that a puff of wind could have taken her away, but she still smiled and came for her evening glass of sherry without fail. In August, Mr Smith telephoned to confirm his usual pitch for the Bank Holiday weekend, but he had an unusual request. His wife, he said, had died in June, and he wanted to bury her ashes in the little belt of trees we planted at the head of the valley on the landward side of the campsite. He would quite understand, he said, if we preferred not to give permission, but his dear wife had had the happiest times of her life on our campsite and it had been her wish to be laid to rest under the trees where she could smell the sea. I didn't know what to say, but my own wife took the telephone firmly out of my fingers and said there would be absolutely no problem. After she hung up I thought of a dozen reasons why this wasn't a good idea, but the tears in her eyes were enough reason to forget my misgivings.
As it turned out, those misgivings were unfounded. On the Bank Holiday weekend my wife had a quiet word with all the other guests as they arrived, and nobody had any objection. Far from it. Most knew the Smiths, and when the motorhome drew up on its accustomed pitch on Friday afternoon, Mr Smith had a steady stream of visitors. He came to the office late in the day with a bemused smile on his face. It seemed that his fellow campers wished to join him in remembering his gentle wife, and he wondered if we had any objection to a small ceremony in the wood. He said he had thought to bury the urn quietly and secretly, so as not to disturb others, and was much touched to find out how many wished to offer their support. Of course, we agreed, and the next morning we found ourselves in a group of about twenty people, many of whom carried flowers, as the old man dug a hole in the soft loam with his bare hands, and laid his wife to rest under a rowan tree.
In the following months, Mrs Smith's last resting place became something of a phenomenon. One regular visitor turned up a week after the Bank Holiday with a teak bench strapped to the roof of his car. He said it was an unwanted present, and he thought it would be nice for people to be able to sit down in the wood. Then another family brought a bag of flower bulbs. Someone else turned up with a flowering shrub. And so it went on... By the end of that year the little coppice had become perhaps the prettiest place in the whole valley and was somewhere all our regular campers loved. Mr Smith himself, and his little dog, Rags, were regular visitors, and the old man's pleasure in that quiet spot was something in which we took great pride.
Mr Smith and his dog spent Christmas and the New Year with us, and seemed content in each other's company. Last thing every night, they walked around the campsite, then went to say goodnight to Mrs Smith, an old man and an old dog, with a smile and a polite greeting for everyone.
In August, we had a sad telephone call from the eldest Smith son. His father, he said had been very poorly, and, to make matters worse, Rags had died. The old man, it seemed, was fretting about Rags' ashes. He had wanted to scatter them near where Mrs Smith rested, but his health was so poor it seemed unlikely he would be able to get here to do it. I volunteered to scatter Rags' ashes myself feeling it was the least I could do for our old friend. Smith junior almost cried with relief, and a few days later the postman delivered a strongly packed parcel. That night, my wife and I secretly scattered the ashes among the trees and shrubs. I'll admit that a few tears were shed, and as we walked back to our house, we were both almost certain we would never see Mr Smith again.
But we were wrong...
We have a single static caravan, sited on the edge of the courtyard by the bar and lounge. It is principally for the benefit of our own increasingly large tribe of children and grandchildren, but also available for hire to a few selected customers. We don't usually let it out for Christmas and the New Year, as it tends to be be in family use, but this year, all our tribe were to head overseas for the festive season, and it looked as if the caravan would be empty. Then we got a call out of the blue from Mr Smith. He was now much better, he said, but no longer able to drive, and he was wondering if the caravan would be available for Christmas. If we agreed, his younger son and his family would bring him down and spend Christmas with him. They would have to return to work on December 28, he explained, but his elder son could pick him up directly after the New Year. He sounded so much like his usual self that it was hard to believe he had been ill, and we agreed with alacrity.
Christmas week came, and the Smiths filled our caravan to overflowing. The old man himself looked much as he had always looked, if a little thinner than we would have liked. It seemed sad to see him without his dog, but he soon acquired a canine companion in the shape of a half-trained spaniel belonging to a young family called Richardson. He spent hours in the dog field, with the family and the spaniel, training both canine and humans with patience and humour. December 28 arrived and his family drove away in their chunky four-wheel drive, leaving the old man alone. I dropped in an hour or two after they had gone to find the Richardsons and their dog had got there before me. Mrs Richardson was cooking, Mr Richardson was hoovering, the children were playing cards with Mr Smith, and the dog slept quietly on a blanket.
I effaced myself, glad to see our old friend was far from lonely. Mr Richardson followed me out. 'I'm grateful and glad' I said 'that you have befriended the old boy'. 'Not as glad as I am' he replied. 'Mr Smith is amazing. In a few short days he has transformed our dog from a hooligan into an estimable family pet. In addition to which, this is the first holiday we've had in three years where the kids have emerged from behind their computers to do more than eat. No, it's us who should be grateful.'
In the next couple of days, Mr Smith became absorbed into the Richardson family, and together they seemed a very happy unit, even hosting a party for their fellow campers on the eve of New Years Eve.
The great night rolled around and our little bar and lounge were buzzing, filled with campers and friends from the village. My wife had put on a splendid buffet, and I was kept on my toes filling glasses. Just before midnight, I had a moment of leisure to look around me. I spotted our old friend in a comfortable chair in the corner with the youngest Richardson fast asleep on his lap. He looked a contented man, and I felt glad for him.
After the singing of Auld Lang Syne the crowd thinned somewhat, and I closed the bar. The Richardsons took their sleepy babies home to bed, but Mr Smith remained in his seat, and was joined by a couple of older men, one of whom was waving a bottle of single malt whisky. It looked as if we were all in for a long night.
We didn't clear everybody out until around three o'clock, and I sent my wife off to bed, saying I'd lock up and be with her shortly. I locked the bar, checked the gates, locked the office and climbed wearily up the stairs. When I got into our bedroom, I found my wife had crashed face-down on the bed. I removed her shoes and pulled the duvet over her. Before falling into bed myself, I wandered out onto the balcony to breathe the cool night air and clear the whisky fumes from my head. I was surprised to see two people wandering along the roadway leading from the back of the site to the beach. I couldn't see their faces, but there was something familiar about the tall figure of the man and his slender companion. As I watched them, I heard the woman call 'Rags, Rags', and a small dog bulleted out of nowhere to join the couple. I banged my head with the heel of my hand, I had to be dreaming. I must have had too much of that single malt. It was just that old Mr Smith had been so much in my mind. I closed my eyes for an instant, and when I opened them again, there was nobody to be seen. I turned away from the frosty night, and, closing the doors, fell into bed and, almost instantly, into a deep, exhausted sleep.
Morning came, and I forgot all about my odd moonlight experience in the flurry of day-to-day tasks. I had mucked out the bar and was just sitting down to a much-needed cup of coffee, when Mr Richardson came into the office looking worried. It seemed that Mr Smith was due to go out to lunch with the family, but they couldn't raise him. Mrs Richardson had taken the children back to their own caravan, and he had come to find me in the hope I had some spare keys. I collected the spares and, with Mr Richardson at my heels, walked across the courtyard to the caravan. Halfway there, my early morning vision came back to me with startling clarity. My heart sank.
I unlocked the door and we went in together. All was tidy and calm, and Mr Smith sat at the end of the settee. For a moment I thought he was only sleeping, but as I got closer I realised this was his last sleep. His eyes were closed, and he looked both serene and happy. The caravan smelled like my wife's herb garden on a summer afternoon and I realised that the old man held a sprig of rosemary in full flower in his right hand. His left hand, however, was outstretched, and laid caressingly on a circular dent in the cushion next to him where a trail of tiny muddy paw prints came to an end...