The foundations were shallow on those hot and sunny afternoons on the beach in south-east France. The seaside town: Portiragnes, not far from Béziers and the Canal du Midi. The team: ‘us’; the probing, inquisitive five-year old; and the easily-pleased but wandering two-year old who likes a digging and water. For infinite hours we dug and heaped mound of sand upon mound to build castles and walls and other beige installations. Occasionally the lanky ice cream seller would walk by with his metallic livelihood, enunciating his plaintiff pitch. The children’s eyes would wander yet they knew the ground rules of their daily fix.

Occasionally my eyes would glance south to another installation: the seaside bar made from an old shipping container, one side of it opened up for the patrons’ seating and view of the beach and sea, fifteen metres away. My eyes would return to the digging, knowing the rules of engagement. It felt like the tide always came in at teatime, bringing with it a resolve to drag our sandy aspirations away.

Yet hope springs eternal. The kids dreamt that in a moment of weakness I’d relax my ‘one a day’ resolve. And I dreamt that she, in a similar moment, would tell me to quit my daily drooling and grab a cheeky one while she walked them home for their pre-dinner shower and clothes change. When I’d get back from a blissful 25 minutes, she’d tell me they’d been calm, almost harmonious, that perhaps we’d rotate such an adventure every day.  

On the second day, I peered and perved up close, using my walk along the beach to the shop for a parasol as cover. Le Surfing, it was called, a neat little bar offering draught beer, cocktails, sandwiches, paninis and a few other light meals. The interior of the old shipping container was suitably nautical, grey-navy and white, the tables and seating a dolly mixture of oak barrels and slouching seats made of wicker. Bird of Paradise plants weaved around the seating. I wondered how they covered up the side facing the sea in times of rain.

Its name seemed curious, then a small blackboard sign beside the menu boards revealed all: sun bathers (Have I got that right? Mon Français, mon dieu!); pedalos; stand-up paddlers; banana boats or buoys for rent. Those sitting at the barrels or on lower chairs looked horizontal with their drinks, the breeze drifting towards them from the choppy waves. Ah.

I returned to the crew. All hell had broken loose over a contested square metre of beach. The beach was only hundreds of miles long. It seemed the daily ice cream fix en route to the beach was wearing off, now crashing against other waves – heat, fatigue and dehydration.  

The best I could do was suggest dinner at ‘Le Surfing’ some evening. ‘What kind of food have they?’ she asked. ‘There’s tapas, poke bowls,’ I relayed, not even persuading myself. ‘Nice looking cocktails though, Aperol Spritzes on the menu,’ I added, trying to salvage things. ‘It’s got a great view of the sea, it’d be so nice to have a drink there after the beach.’ We agreed we’d try it on the penultimate night. The day before, I poked my head in and asked what time food was served until on Saturdays. The diminutive chef, doubling up as a barman, struggled to answer en Anglais. I gave it my best French and came away with 7pm.

The sun beat down on us relentlessly that Saturday. We filled our buckets and built. The two ‘engineers’, as the five-year old now labelled him and his brother, collaborated with their spades so I resorted to my hand. I scooped and scooped and scooped, one eye admiring the solid installations of kids that looked Dutch, the other on the flags flapping by my now-favourite former shipping container. This time, despite the tide, our fortress held up.

The bar was near empty when we arrived all dirty and gritty from sea and re-applied cream. I had worried about no space and how that would work with the kids. But the meal times had been lost in translation. ‘Only chips,’ the same chef said now, meaning crisps. Our two-year old was already on the verge of becoming one. ‘How about a quick drink then we find somewhere else for dinner?’ I suggested to try and salvage things. A pint of lager, an Aperol Spritz, juices for the two boys, and a few packets of crisps. What’s another bag? Let them eat crisps.

With a gentle breeze blowing towards us, we sat and sipped and briefly enjoyed the spectacle of the French bathing, reading, sun-bathing and admiring their afternoon’s efforts with the sand. For a few brief minutes it was calm and enjoyable. Two years ago, the possibility of a bar meant grabbing a beer for ten cheeky minutes whilst waiting on take-away pizzas from the campsite café. The engineers are maturing. I see stronger foundations.