“Half memoir, half travel, A Yank Back to England...is an absolutely wonderful book, not only about going home again but also about love and family and tradition and the passage of the years.” —Michael Dirda, Pulitzer Prize-winning literary critic (Washington Post) To see the entire quote, click here.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Cold as brass monkeys
Moments later, in my improvised cut-downs, Kate and I were jumping icy, gray waves that formed perfect semicircles on the smooth, flat sand. Plucking up courage, we raced into the water. I gasped, looked down, and saw my legs turn deathly white as blood fled my frozen pins. Kate just laughed. Adjusting to the cold, we waded in a bit farther. Tiny, gray-green waves collided in silvery arcs, dappling our mouths with the taste of salt, seaweed, and sun. After some extensive water play, we clomped back to the shore and tried to persuade Frances to join us for a paddle. Cleverly, she saw through our bold fibs regarding the tropical nature of the ocean blue and declined.
Standing, from L to R: Lew (Dad), Frances (Prodigal Wife), Denis (The Prodigal Tourist), and Jessie (Mum). Floating: Kate (Prodigal Daughter).
About this blog
You are reading random vignettes, deleted scenes, and other extras from and about my book, A Yank Back to England: The Prodigal Tourist Returns. Enjoy, let me know what you think, ask questions, and thanks for your support! Cheers, The Prodigal Tourist
Years ago I shed my Cockney accent and left London's blighted East End for America. Since then, I’ve only returned to see my increasingly cantankerous parents and assorted relatives. Until my American wife comes along. She wants to tour, see the sights. No thank you. It’s not for me. But she insists, and I become a reluctant tourist in my former homeland.