There was always something magical about a summer campsite by the sea. The retro caravan, painted in sun-faded orange and cream, stood like a loyal companion beneath the trees, its aluminium trim catching the late afternoon light. Its awning stretched out bravely, as though it could hold back whatever weather threatened on the horizon. Out beyond the golden strip of sand, the ocean shifted from turquoise to deep blue, and further still, dark clouds gathered in theatrical formation. They always looked as though they would blow over. And most of the time, they did.
At the heart of this temporary summer kingdom stood the swing ball set, or pole tennis as some called it. A simple metal pole, planted firmly into the grass, with a tennis ball tethered to a length of string spiralling from the top. No batteries required. No screens. Just two players, one on either side, ready for battle.
The rules were straightforward: strike the ball cleanly so it wound its way up or down the pole in your favour. But simplicity never meant ease. There were techniques to master. If you hit the ball at precisely the right moment, with just enough wrist and timing, it would arc beautifully above your opponent’s head, forcing them to scramble backwards in desperate defence. A well-placed shot could change the entire rhythm of the game.
And rhythm was everything.
The sound of the ball striking the racquet – that hollow thwack – blended with cicadas in the trees and the distant hush of waves folding onto sand. Bare feet shifted on warm grass. Shadows from the caravan stretched long and theatrical, turning ordinary objects into abstract shapes. The folding lawn chairs waited patiently under the awning, striped in faded greens and whites, witnesses to countless contests.
There were dangers, of course. Stand too close to the pole, and a solid return from your opponent could send the ball snapping back into your cheek or forehead. It was a game that demanded respect. More than one player stepped away, rubbing their face, laughing through the sting. It was all part of it.
And then there was the greatest risk of all: the string.
Over time, with competitive fervour and perhaps one swing too many, the cord would fray. A particularly enthusiastic strike would send the tennis ball sailing free across the grass, liberated from its spiral path. Game over. The pole stood useless, and the sudden silence felt heavier than any defeat. Without the tether, there was no contest.
But in this moment, in the golden wash of late afternoon, the ball still hangs suspended mid-spin. The sky is vast and impossibly blue above the caravan roofline. The approaching cloud bank hovers like a distant rumour. The barbecue is being prepared; you can almost smell it. Someone calls from beyond the frame that dinner is nearly ready.
And yet, as the day stretches thin and the light softens towards evening, there is always that inevitable plea:
“One more game.”
Not because the score needs settling, but because summer itself feels as though it might detach like that worn string. Because childhood, like the long day, cannot be wound back up the pole once it reaches the end.
So you play on. One more rally. One more laugh. One more perfect shot arcing high above your opponent’s reach.
Oil on fine portrait linen: 95 x 120 cm; 37.4 x 47.2 in (sold)
