THE UMBRELLA AND THE MALLET
We five have arranged ourselves in the usual
position: facing the sea; chairs in a row;
striped windbreak stretched out behind us;
multi-coloured umbrella above the
humble paterfamilias. This
is our favourite beach, Traeth Benllech:
with views of the remains of a hillfort
on a distant promontory; of the Great Orme –
shaped like the dragon’s head the Norse sailors saw –
a far peninsula on the mainland;
of container ships on the horizon
waiting for low tide to dock in Liverpool;
of the sea itself here at low water –
soft sibilants a fair walk away.
On the sands fifteen yards in front of us
and slightly to our left three Muslim women,
in hijabs and embroidered abayas,
with two small children, set up their camp.
Their picnic table is substantial,
and adorned with an elegant coffee pot.
Their umbrella is multi-coloured
like ours. They push its spike manually
into the sand. I fear the worst. They sit,
and call the children to the picnic.
The prevailing gentle south westerly
upends the brolly. They rise, and again
push the spike down as far as they can.
The wind fills the umbrella like a sail.
“Those three ladies need assistance,” I say.
One of our party, a stalwart in a storm,
rises, and approaches the group, our mallet
held unthreateningly at his side.
We watch the dumb-show of smiles and gestures.
He hammers the bottom firmly in,
and places the top half at an angle.
We watch the gestures and the smiles. He returns.
We applaud. Almost immediately
one of the women approaches smiling
and carrying a small metal tray.
“They are lukmat,” she explains, extending
the tray of small pastries. “Morsels in English.
They have been fried and then covered in
fig sauce. Please take as many as you want”.
And we do. “It is a Middle East custom.
I am from Yemen. My friends” – she gestures
with her head – “are from Saudi Arabia
and Syria”. I manage, “Shukraan”,
and she asks if I speak Arabic, and I laugh
deprecatingly. One her friends arrives
with the coffee pot and five small paper cups.
“I am from Saudi Arabia,” she says,
smilingly. “This is Arabic coffee.
There is no sugar” – and she gives each of us
a cup and pours. We thank her, and sip.
The coffee’s bitterness has been tempered
by cardamom, that sweetens the breath.
They leave before us. There are waves and smiles.
Later, as we drive up the steep hill home,
I recall that I know another word of
Arabic – yamal, hope.
Kira Somach
September 25, 2026Shukraan for your words, David. This is such a lovely story .
David ALEXANDER
September 26, 2026I will forward this beautiful story to my daughter, who now lives in Siena, but learnt Arabic in Amman
John Plummer
October 6, 2026Twenty years ago on a Sunday in Northern Cyprus we drove on sinuous, crumbly road up from the coast into the wooded spine of the mountains. In seering heat, with a slight breeze, we found a picnic table on the perimeter of a large flat arena, amung the first to arrive. Our lunch was simple – bread, cheese, grapes and bananas. As the circle filled, directly opposite us, a couple, probably in their 80s, obviously practiced in their outdoor Sunday lunches, started to spread out cooked chicken in sauces, salads and vegetables. The husband meandered in our direction with a tray and proffered a share of their lunch. He spoke no English, we hardly any Turkish but the delight in his intentions was eloquent, our appreciation inadequate. He even showed us how to set up a distracting saucer of food for the wasps. The kindness of strangers lingers still. Thanks for recalling a lovely memory, David