Sorry, I’m still thinking about that beach that went missing from an Ireland shore thirty years ago and popped back in last month. Like, where do you imagine it went all that time? I understand if it took a vacation, especially if it had been there since the glaciers retreated and knew it might be forever until a glacier comes back. But where does a beach go on vacation? Another beach? Sure, I understand hanging out with a friend. But that’s going to be a terrible holiday. It would keep having people trod out onto it in flip-flops and lugging baskets of things and have to explain, “No no, mate, I’m here for the same thing you are,” and point to its friend that it’s standing on.
Maybe it could go the mountains? That would be fine, nobody would go out for a beach expedition to the Swiss Alps, say. It couldn’t go skiing, what with people getting all tense around avalanches and rockslides and that. But sitting around a chalet, sipping cocoa? That’s great, until the rescuers dig the chalet out from itself. I don’t know about you; I don’t think having heavy machinery clawing at my backside until a path is dug from me to the emergency exit would be fun. Different strokes, though, I must admit.
Maybe it did a museum tour. That would make sense to me. The beach was gone for thirty years, after all, and I’ve spent that much time in some museums. I’ve had — and I am not exaggerating this in the slightest — museum docents come up and sheepishly ask me if I thought I might be near the end of my examinations of things, as the museum had technically speaking closed forty-five minutes earlier.
I bet that’s it. We should ask the museums of the world if any of them had a beach come by and just stay poking around a painting or a diorama for up to 358 months past closing time.