No, you didn’t read it wrong. I put "melancholic" and "holiday" in the same title. Let me tell you why: Here in our neck of the woods, beachgoers suffered a significant beach withdrawal, which seemed to have no end during the pandemic; and those who had always just taken it for granted started regretting not having taken advantage of ocean life more often. So when they magnanimously freed us, we and our pets flocked to the beaches, which smacked of a cautionary tale for a new variant... so as a mostly responsible, post-pandemic being, I decided to continue not to partake in the beach festivities—until one day we decided to take a day trip to a beach 2 hours away from home to satisfy our desire to splash about in the warm ocean water. It happened to be a very quiet, secluded beach... and as we reached our destination, we realized it had gone from a very sunny, blue-skied day to drab and overcast.

Long story short, it didn’t rain that day but it remained moody.

We took a stroll down the quietest stretch of beach I’ve been to in years; the air was chilly and it felt incredible. We ended up staying the night at a petit hotel owned by a French man who exalts privacy and peace to the point of not welcoming children... while admitting pets. That day is fixed in my mind as a beautiful memory of a short-lived, moody holiday.

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