After an interesting stop in Eindhoven, Burtdad and I mosied over to Belgium to see what it looked like in the winter, because we are clever, clever people. BD had spun a yarn about a naughty little beach he knew where we might enjoy some of the local nature. In his normal style, he'd left out a few key points until we arrived and then slipped them in sideways and tried to change the subject.

Two of those points were:
1. Everything he said was made up.
2. It was far too cold anyway.

Due to the design limitations that being a skinflint had imposed, Burtdad's van was a tad slender on the comforts side and we'd been sharing a double-ish bed that I was convinced had been made from a clothes rack. On the first day, due to a rushed weld (apparently, his tea had been getting cold), the bottom leg had fallen off the bed and it had since been replaced by Burtdad's backpack, which he hadn't otherwise touched the entire time we'd been on the road. It had made me wonder what it was so full of, but I'd thought it best not to explore.

We pulled up on the beach front in the evening and set about dealing cards while the kettle boiled (it's the go-to action set of any serious camper). Burtdad began embellishing on the previous yarn with stories of supermodels in an attempt to corrupt my innocent mind. I was having none of it, of course, and didn't bother to stroll in that direction until almost 8 o'clock the following morning.

Burtdad being Burtdad, a metal detector was an apparent must for such an adventure and the riches he would be discovering where to be believed only on sight, such would be their quantity and value. This haul was sure to see us home. I packed light, just carrying my van key and a towel.

As I came closer to the beach, certain subtle signs began to show themselves and I realized I might be in for a surprising morning, after all.

(Pants on a stick)

Rounding the final corner, however, I was met by the most deserted stretch of sand I'd ever seen. But the day was young and so were the models I was sure to encounter. I actually enjoyed the silence for quite a while until the sun started to shine, its weak rays warming the skin only enough to keep the shakes away between gusts of wind. But I embraced it and soon found myself a nice private area between two reedy mounds and got comfortable.

Shortly after relaxing to the max, someone appeared in the distance, spotted me and then receded, only to reappear, I'm sure it was a coincidence, right next to my secret hideout. The dirty old man had come for an eyeful. He hadn't bargained on a dude, and quickly made his "what's that in the distance?" face before disappearing back into the distance from whence he came.

Just as the shock died down, another filthy old man appeared, much in the same manner, quite by accident, overlooking my hideout. It was Burtdad and he was as shocked as the last bloke who'd come by hoping for something other than what he got. Expecting the moment's inherent awkwardness to bring a swift end to the encounter, I made no attempt to end it myself, but neither did Burtdad. And so he just stood there in silence until I suggested he could find himself another nook to occupy. He took the hint, however subtle it wasn't, and parked himself in a neighboring spot to stare out at the countless supermodels that weren't anywhere to be seen.

A while later, while making our way back to the van for another cuppa, BD stopped and broke out the metal detector, yet again, as a sudden feeling of luck came over him. I watched for ten minutes as he scoured the sand and his silly toy made pointless bleeps and bloops, causing him to stop and dig fruitlessly in the golden sand, until he would admit defeat. This party was still in full swing when I'd left, and even when I came back to catch up on his finds a bit later on, after a short excursion to the interesting part of the beach. But seeing his catch bag hanging limply from his shoulder brought a sad feeling that prevented me from teasing him endlessly about his new hobby.

When he finally gave up and turned off the bloopy stick, we walked for less than a minute before I spotted a euro in the sand and casually picked it up and pocketed it. Burtdad's face was a picture.

After lunch, we went for a walk in the ghost town. Seriously, where the heck was everyone? There were shops with lights on but none of them appeared to be open and the streets were emptier than I'd ever seen. As the vague warmth of the afternoon evaporated, we went back to the van to plan our evening. It was to be a rare night out on the town.

After the cards tournament was won and lost and the last teabag was flicked out the window, we decided to hit the sack and begin our journey back to the UK in the morning.

That night, came a frightening occurence that has never quite left me. While deep in sleep, the recently single Burtdad fell victim to a habit I'd just as well not have known about. I was awoken by his sleep voice muttering incoherent words and then a wandering hand that earned him a good, solid slap, followed by deeply sincere apologies.

Things have never been the same since.