To be the first to walk across the golden
sand in the morning, to leave a footprint
pressed into the sand like a memo
I was here
as the sun beams down
and the quiet, golden silence
of the morning is a secret held
by me alone, imprinted on my mind,
my shoes dangling at my side
sand clinging to my wet feet,
and I wish, that I was there again.
With reluctance I wash the sea air
Written in Fowey, September ’15
I went to bed at 9.30 last night, which was absolutely amazing after a few late nights (which I am not used to anymore!) and lots of driving, as well as the sea air.
My generation talks a lot about dreams, about pursuing things we love, doing what we love every day, and making it happen.
I had been driving all night. My only thought was of coffee. I needed it and I needed it fast, or I was going to fall asleep at the wheel. I couldn’t even take in the little Cornish cove that I had pulled up in front of as I was drawn towards the only source of caffeine I can see. The small cafe is only just putting out the signs, but as I stumble towards it, I don’t care. I can’t even process the fact that I had arrived in Cornwall at long last.
Sometimes I just want to take a tent and take off, drive down to Cornwall, and wind my way along the coast, camping, windsurfing, body-boarding, exploring, picture taking, writing.
Arriving in Fowey again is like entering one of my own dreams. Except this time, the streets are real, and as we round the corner, down the hill, into the town, I know that this really exists. And yet, it takes me a moment – a few moments – to realise that I am not dreaming, and that I am really there again.
