My beach, My Place (part 2)

I think I’ve just stumbled upon a place I visited as a child. The memory is so vivid. My uncle sits on the very rock from which I write. The island out in the firth, the seaweed caked rocks that jut out at weird angles, like broken teeth. I remember playing down on the sand, digging for cockles, thinking, naively that my mum and aunty might eat them. The birdsong still clear as my memory and the houses behind stuck into the cliffs with ancient ewe trees at the head of them. This place is called Rockcliffe. I’m reminiscing on how I spent that October half term, full of flu like symptoms, but nonetheless still eager to be outside in the fresh air all day. I think my need for escapism was picked up as a child, you might call it a bad habit. Maybe if I hadn’t experienced this, the adventures, the outdoors, learning about nature I wouldn’t be so down right sad every time I spend more than a couple of weeks cooped up inside, using my laptop for entertainment, to check when I’ll be able to go outside again. The thought of living a sheltered and indoor, office type of life haunts me. I’m glad I can appreciate something that’s outside and natural. I’m glad that when I’m here everything bad about human life can almost be forgotten. The artificial lifestyle forgotten with the finding of a comfortable rock to sit on. Its delight.



I see some children and their fathers walking out on the sand. As I did with my mum and brother. These adults are doing a great thing. Even if their children don’t learn to appreciate this, at least they’re giving them a chance.

The water’s changed to golden now. Molten gold. It reminds me of chocolate wrapped in golden foil. The sun is about to set. I need to move, quick, get a better view out to sea. Still the flow moves steadily on by. It’s doing a good job at cleansing my soul. My hair flicks and wisps harmoniously with the sea breeze. Washing negativity out into the Irish sea.



I hear my voice, I’ve muttered something under my breath and it slightly startles me. I hadn’t spoken all day. I think its odd how in one day you almost forget to speak. Would you forget if you left it long enough? Would then thought and emotion begin to disappear too? Would places like this lose significance because you were happy? To forget all that lies outside the here and now is a scary yet blissful thought. Would I grow tired of this place? Probably not.

As the sun slowly begins to set in this golden hour, I don’t want to go home. I want to wrap myself up in a protective bubble and watch all night. Be woken up to the same sounds I’m hearing now. Squeaks, twitters, howls, squeals. The birds here are amazing. There must be at least 200 or more bathing, hunting, gathering tasty morsels on the incoming tide. The sun is presenting the true reds and oranges of the rock and the acid green of the lichen. It picks up every spectrum of brown on the deciduous trees on the hillside. House windows glinting at me, almost like little cheerful winks. My favourite sound of all begins to grace my ears. The water has arrived at the bottom of the pile of rocks I’m resting on. The waves. Lapping up onto the seaweed, a movement so relaxing it could send me to sleep. There’s no formality to this symphony, it’s every man for himself yet it puts to shame every single song I know. It’s a score that could never be interpreted.




The sun begins to disappear and a few shady characters begin to emerge, sunken, slitty eyes, dry hands, stubble. It’s time I moved on, I’m no longer comfortable, fear and apprehension begin to take over. My footsteps become quicker for fear of someone following me along the mid lit coastal path. I hear people up in front, chatting jovially. These people are more friendly. A smile and a polite hello. I think we all get so wrapped up in our day to day busy lives we forget that maybe that smile would brighten someone’s day, make them smile in return. It certainly seems this politeness has stuck with the older generations, the younger one’s being selfish, not considering the others around them. On my return from my rock pile throne, I must’ve passed and exchanged greetings with at least 3 different parties. One that particularly stuck in my mind were 3 neighbours discussing a break in. What first occurs in my mind is “Oh my goodness, here?!?!” I have to quickly greet them, console my shock, as each of them smile and nod with a “hello”. I respond, “Hi”. The old lady’s glasses reflect the now orange sun and the low light of the evening deepens her crevice like wrinkles. The other woman wears a pink fleece hat, a look of concern written right across her face. Her straw like hair sticking out at odd angles. The man, obviously her partner, wore a green mac and had a front tooth missing, he was slightly rotund and wore the same expression of concern as his wife. To them I’m just a nobody. It’s a pleasant thought. I never have to see them again and the opinion if they were to see me, would be positive because I took the time to smile.

My day ends, the sun turning the sky dark, rose pink with the last of it kicking up off the back of the hills, a lining. Darkness is about to take hold, although, I’m certain that it would be just as good as the daylight. I need to get back. But why did I even think that? No one is at home to worry where I am. I have signal so if they did need to call they could. I wanted to stay. But it would be irresponsible to do so. No one knew where I was or what I was doing. I had no shelter, my car would’ve made do but sleeping would’ve been uncomfortable. I wanted to justify staying but I just couldn’t. Back to Penrith. Back to the dirty town.