I’m awake early following a restless night. I miss the deep sleep you get from physical exercises and can’t seem to stop different, useless and disconnected thoughts running through my mind. The shutters on the window make long crosses of the soft morning light which seeps in around the edges. It’s a blurred dawn and the sodium lamps in the street outside fizz through the hazy air. It’s 4.30am and I feel wide awake. I give up on the idea of any further sleep as it’s clear my mind has other ideas. Reluctantly I give into it and get up, dressed and leave the house into the emerging morning.
The light blue sky is streaked with wisps of clouds which are soaked in a pinky glow. The sun has not yet risen but its arrival is imminent, there’s a stillness in the air of gentle anticipation. A cool breeze tickles the side of my neck as I drop down the hill toward the small beach. The tide is in and it’s high, I’m slightly surprised to see so little beach left and the old quay so low to the water. It’s as if I’ve caught the sea up to something. The water slowly spills in and pulls back leaving sparkling trails as it turns and shrugs off the sand. There’s a slowness to the slack and languid slop that whispers in and out. It laps the thinly strewn line of the high tide mark for a fleeting moment then it sets about as if it wasn’t there. The pink glow grows into a golden orange which lights up the sky tracing the edges of low hanging clouds. This accidental but near perfect alignment of high tide and sunrise feels like the satisfaction of a final jigsaw piece fitting in place.
Following the beach around the small headland, the thin line of sand turns first into pebbles, rocks and shells before rising up into ridges of thin, sharp, grey layers that push through the sand like the dorsal fins of an ancient fish. Flat mirrored rock pools reflect the changing skies as they sit like bejewelled lakes in the valleys and trenches of this micro mountainous landscape. The flat slate surfaces push up forming craggy peaks and ledges reflecting the morning light on their upturned flanks. Once an area of deep seas, these thin layers of sands and sediments were laid down over 380 million years ago, with the weight of the water compacting them into a rocky pastry crust, pushed, cracked and forced upwards by the repercussions of forces far from here.
A low mist hangs over the water and I can hear the distant hum of Falmouth docks. A thrumming engine but nothing to see. A tanker sits on the horizon, suspended in front of the line of the next headland that has been erased by the mist. It’s hard to tell where the sea ends and the sky begins. The grass is wet and the mist hangs silently amongst the trees. The water sloshes in over a frizzy perm of brown bladderwrack and the charred black edges of the crumpled ridges seem like burnt toast. Yellow and grey stones are scattered between the gaps like melted butter on the blackened surface. Between this, long veins of white quartz cut through like the ancient disrupted marking of a car park. Occasional clumps of bright pink parma ham weeds are strewn about with yellowy tissue layers draped over the ridges with the messy abandon of used toilet paper. The cool air drops down as the mist envelops with its silent cloak.
I enjoy the enclosing feeling that mist brings. I check in with the early morning Shipping Forecast as it’s announced ‘Plymouth… fog banks…occasionally poor’ the weather update that follows predicts one of hottest day since last August ahead. I turn it off again. Here, I feel like I’m floating, suspended and blissfully cut off from everything. I stare into the whiteness and loose myself in it. The breeze catches the sharp smell of the sea which instantly clears my nose and head, iron, sand, salt. It gurgles and sloshes between the low rocky ridges with the sounds of a slow old dog lapping at a bowl of water. I feel totally calm for the first time in a while. I soak in the cool air and feel it in my nostrils. I’m in Iceland, Denmark, Galicia, Portugal, on different beaches on different mornings simultaneously. The water flickers gently past an emerging rock creating a gentle glimmer against its dark silhouette.
I sit down on a log that’s gnarled and curved with a perfect human sized twist forming a seat. Its yellowy brown limb contrasts with the monochrome ridges below, the miniature world of mountain ranges. As the mist drops, it sits and slumps between them. Behind me, the vivid green of leaves sprawls over the low sandy cliff. The fast purr and beating of bird’s wings flashes by, the slow cooing of wood pigeons, and higher pitch of the blackbirds song fades further away with the distant cawing of geese. I feel like I’m right here. The mist rolls in and the tide retreats. It’s like a special performance. Cool air envelops and hangs around me, whisping around my open jacket and beneath my shirt collar like a gentle caress. It’s times like this that I feel that nature is holding me. Gently calming without words.
The rising sun appears as a shrouded white orb in a fluffy cloak then shyly slips away again. The tide is dropping now. A blackbird trills in the bushes behind me and there’s the distant scattering as a bird lands on the water and disturbs the silky surface. The air carries the smell of wet stones. The scraggy hair and seaweed drapery on the veiny, scratched, dragged and pulled rocks emerges through haze and the yellow sun dapples the water. White weed sits in the valleys like an ancient glacier. The sharp tip of the riparian obelisk on the shoreline pierces through the drifting blanket. Somewhere, the clanking, clanging of metal cranes echo into a vast hull. The buzz and low crackling squall of a VHF radio drifts past with the hum of a fishing vessel and the clunking sound of oars running rhythmically against the side of a hollow boat.
I can feel the warm sun on my face. It ducks under the lifting veil of mist scattering sparkling flecks on the clear blue water. A fishing trawler chugs along the clearing horizon as I drop down to the water’s edge. It’s clear and inviting. I slip into it and immerse myself in the slowly waking day, closing my eyes and seeing the dappled flickering sunlight projected onto the back of my eye lids. I float on the surface watching the mist dissolving to reveal the headland and the lighthouse across the estuary. The water is deep blue against the faded gradient of the sky. Colours build in intensity. Small pink flowers bob amongst the grassy hair with crusty white lichen making white mountain tops on the rocks. The tide is running faster now and the chop and slap of the water makes a different rhythm as it hits the rocks. The distant hum grows louder and the sounds of engines more frequent. A fluorescent pink mooring buoy slips into sharp, clear focus across the water and the day emerges. It’s a gentle awakening.