![]() “Well- yes, I suppose it was,” he admitted. “When, in the 1920’s? I think my grandfather had the same one.” “I’ve gotten many a compliment in this bathing costume, I’ll have you know. Surely this was too much skin to be showing in the broad daylight of an English afternoon? But as he glanced around, he couldn’t help but notice that his fellow beachgoers were wearing even less, so he supposed he was in the clear. “I most certainly am,” he rebuffed, straightening the straps over his bare shoulders uncomfortably. ![]() He looked down in confusion, relieved when the sight confirmed that his morning’s dressing hadn’t been in error. ![]() “And you’re not even wearing a bathing suit!” “But it’s the beach,” she said, gesturing to their surroundings as if a magician’s reveal of the landscape would elucidate some deeper meaning that his eyes had yet to see. The girl appeared very close to stamping her foot in frustration, or to just physically dragging him into the depths herself. You’ll have to enjoy it for the both of us.” “Lovely as that sounds Tegan, I’m afraid that I’m very happy here with my book. He wracked his brains trying to think of when any offer had ever sounded worse, shuddering to himself before remembering his audience and shooting her a winning smile. In the distance, the waves crashed menacingly and a flock of seagulls cawed. “Aren’t you going to come in the water?” she inquired eventually, when it became clear he wasn’t planning on budging the conversation along himself. She tapped her foot and eyed him over, expectantly. She stood dripping and looming above his perch with her arms crossed, far more menacing than her one-hundred and fifty-seven centimetres of height should allow. Tegan padded over to where he sat, forlornly shaking sand from its pages once again. What with the noisy crowds, and the sand getting everywhere, and the salt and the damp and-Ī cry from the waves had him startling in his folding chair, audibly gasping as the jolt dropped his freshly-located novel from his hands. He hated - well okay, perhaps that was a bit too harsh. If he was being honest, that was the true crux of his dismay. How could anyone possibly find the beach nice? ![]() Nice!? He fought back the urge to wail in despair as he wrestled the sand out of his beach bag, scavenging its depths for his book. 'Somewhere nice and normal for once Doctor, I don’t want to find anything alien crawling out of my pastries.' While Turlough had no such fond ties to the beach, much less to Cornwall- their recent engagement with the Black Guardian had left him shaken enough that he all too readily joined her demands for a seaside holiday. He had beseechingly suggested Brighton as a compromise, but apparently pebble beaches wouldn’t do. Tegan had named the date specifically, citing memories of family holidays when she claimed they had had the best ice cream stall that couldn’t possibly compare to its replacement the following year. He could see only a few strolling couples in the distance, as well as a beach hut advertising ice-creams and other summer treats neatly tucked in amongst the treeline. Their chosen spot was relatively remote at very least. He sighed noisily as he pitched a large umbrella unsteadily into the sand over their blanket, Turlough scrambling to aid him on its other side as the strong wind threatened to carry it away. And yet, above all other offers, they had chosen.Ĭornwall. The whole universe at their disposal anywhere and any when. He could show them the crystal dunes of Istris, or the sentient water beings of Goda Four. “Anyways, all that boat talk got me missing the water, and it’s been ages since I’ve felt anything like sand.” “That was solar sailing, it hardly counts!” Tegan’s protest was echoed by an emphatic nod from Turlough, of all people. “Just to clarify,” he had ventured only an hour ago with a polite smile, attempting against all odds to keep his voice from squeaking upwards indignantly, “we almost die in a sailing race, and your first idea for a recovery sojourn is the ocean?” Despite what Tegan’s snickering at his ill-concealed pout seemed to suggest, this was no laughing matter. The Doctor thought it to himself in a fluster as he gathered water bottles, an obnoxiously cheerful picnic blanket, an umbrella, and other summer-based accoutrements into a waterproof rucksack.
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