We witness dawn and dusk
and observe the way that transitional periods transform the topography of a small seaside town:
Fleetwood becomes Goa;
Blackpool, The Seychelles;
Silverdale, Bali.
And when the sun is gone the sea’s undulations echo in the warm and pulsating mist, so heavy you could cup it in your hands and carry it home.
Earthly and unearthly.
Glorious and transient.
This is what the Scots call a “thin place” – a thin line between this world and the next.
It is a place to sit on the rocks and name the flowers.
It is a place utterly bereft of cynicism and irony.
It is a place infused with the scent of wild garlic and honeysuckle.
It is a place not to notice nuclear police carrying machine guns
or the dark and infinitely miserable stories that such places have to hide.
We have learned that fairies are real.
We have learned that God is love.
We have learned about temptation and denial, about gardens we weren’t allowed to play in and dogs we weren’t allowed to stroke.
We have learned how to break windows.
We have learned how to climb rocks.
We have learned to protect our skin.
We have learned when to accept and when to decline.
We have learned that our regrets follow us to the grave and beyond.
We have learned about poetry, philosophy and failure.
