The Coast

The Coast

The pale blue seems to be endless in the sky. It is only broken by a few wispy clouds being pushed along by the persistent breeze. Looking down from the cliff i can see coloured stripes of the sea, the beach and the grassy dunes, looking like the landscapes own flag. The only thing that breaks this exactness is the dark line of the pier, rusted and old, stoically resisting the elements.

Walking down towards the beach I take my time on the stone steps, worn and washed, leading me to the dunes. As i descend, I begin to hear the sound of crashing waves. The soothing tempo of the tide is accompanied by the unceasing squeals of the seagulls, hovering almost statically in the air. The steps end, and i take my first muffled step into the soft, beige sand.

I follow the trail as it rises to the summit of a large dune, breathing harder as my feet sink into the sand. The wind returns as I reach the top, blowing my hair and stinging my face. From this elevated point I can see over all the dunes as they stretch into the distance, covered in spiky grass that sways in the wind like the sea i can hear. Moving on, I descend into a depression and am surrounded by high sandy banks. This dip encloses me from the world, even muffling the sounds of the coast, so I feel like I'm in another place.

I'm brought back to reality as I climb the last rise and take in the wide, flat vista of the beach. The bright, yellow sand stretches away for miles and is only broken by the dashes of seaweed and scatter of shells. The sand is soft and powdery under my feet, feeling almost like fresh snow. The ground gets harder as I get nearer to the sea and the birds gather here, dancing for their dinner. Their feet pounding the wet sand like a tribal ceremony. The familiar smell of salt is strong now, bringing back memories of when I was younger and the sky sunnier.

Approaching the pier, I see people, couples strolling, a jogger, and a few dogs taking their owners for a walk. This time of year the shops and arcade are closed, the slot machines sleeping till summer. One place, however, stays open all year round, serving the sprinkling of visitors. The breeze already bringing the smell of fresh chips from it, along with the pleasure of old memories. As I get even closer, the aroma of coffee beans fills my nostrils, this is new though, and has no place in my nostalgia despite its appeal. The familiarity returns when I see the cafe’s doors, looking just like they did when first built back in the seventies. I enter like I have so many times before, but alone now.

My table at the large window gives me a clear view of my recent journey from the distant cliff, through dunes and across the sand. As someone who grew up on the coast and has lived most of my life in places like this, the view is comfortable and familiar. Most beaches do. The sights, sounds and smells always make me relaxed and contented. I now live as far from the sea that is possible, right in the centre of the county and far from the rushing sound of the ocean. Every few weeks though, I rise early and within an hour, I’m back among the high grass, seaweed, chattering birds, and I am home again.