In the Pinery - coming up the rise the lake comes into view, full blue, and there sit the de Jongs, still, after fifty years. But whom should I meet first, eying me warily with a look of dim remembrance? The beach goes on and on playing host to whimsical castles in the sand
constructed carefully, simply, and all with local materials to bake in the sun, and catch the waves. The water ebbs,
emerges and erodes the sand from under my feet. Clouds billow in the blue sky in counterpoint with the trees. Going back over the dunes, the waves grow quiet,
the heat rises and burns hot on the feet, with only scant refuge to be found in the shade of spindly grass. The  sand gives way but often pricks. The dunes climb high and swoop low
and over the final crest keep their cool under a carolinian canopy. Henry was here to view the trees and see the sea and urge the next generation to feel the rush of a slow summer - in the Pinery.