The print this is a scan of was tiny - no more that 6x4cms. It was scratched and dog-eared as was its right after surviving sixty odd years in the bottom of a box. But it dates from a time when photographs were solid and enduring, not something to be wiped off a sim card at the drop of a digital hat. So I scanned it and I restored it as best I could and that involved getting up close and personal with the image. And whilst I painted over the dust spots and smoothed out the creases, I somehow absorbed some of the history fixed within the silver chloride salts. That's my mother on them left, looking relaxed and happy being close to her beloved sea. And that is Uncle Harry next to her holding a two year old curly haired cherub (yes, that is me). And that is my brother Roger sat next to his perfectly sculptured sand castle - an artist in the making, even back then. I can't recognise the rest, although there is probably a paper pattern of them somewhere in my memory banks.. But that is Bridlington in the background - pushed into the far distance by a trick of a short focal length lens. But more than anything else, I remember the buckets, there in the foreground. I remember the look of them, the feel of them, I suspect that if I tried I could remember the taste of them. I remember filling them with sand - the sands of time.