We managed a blustery walk this afternoon, along the beach of a village close by. It was possible to see the S. Island, and some of her occupants. This wasn’t because I suddenly had telescopic vision, but because they were perched on the beach, bottoms to the wind, clinging to rocks for dear life. The black fronted tern is normally resident on the S. Island, but this group had caught a half price Southerly wind and taken a weekend vacation to the capital.
Of course there was the added bonus of landing just next to a very good fish and chip shop, and harassing windswept hungry locals trying to eat their fish in a Force 6.
We took refuge in a new café; Polish, surprisingly. It lead to an interesting conversation about my husbands ancestors. They were German, Hungarian and Polish. As we read the menu, my husband commented that perhaps some of the meals would have been favourites with his grand parents and great grandparents. The sad thing is, we’ll never know. There is no family to ask any more who remembers or wants to remember.
I would love to do a bit of research, as I do think it honours the dead to remember them, even if it is only in conversation over Pierogi or Bigos.
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