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squirmeliaDaffodils bloom along the Atlantic Highway, but on Black Rock Beach, winter is still unfurling. A uniform greyness torments the sky and as each pebble becomes drenched by the tide, and each clump of seaweed is dragged away, I stumble across the shore towards the largest rock, letting the roar of the waves distract me as I shiver.
At Marhamchurch, there is a jumble sale about to end. Piles of clothes and chipped ornaments are being cleared away by the WI and children wait outside with scooters, bored. Flicking through details from previous decades in my guidebook, I find a description of the church at Marhamchurch, which is just across the road. The floor is slate, with a chequerboard design.
In the fading light at Crackington Haven, my mum and I sift through our own dreams, our scarves fluttering in the breeze, until we share our sorrows, and leave the beach, searching for somewhere warmer.
At Marhamchurch, there is a jumble sale about to end. Piles of clothes and chipped ornaments are being cleared away by the WI and children wait outside with scooters, bored. Flicking through details from previous decades in my guidebook, I find a description of the church at Marhamchurch, which is just across the road. The floor is slate, with a chequerboard design.
In the fading light at Crackington Haven, my mum and I sift through our own dreams, our scarves fluttering in the breeze, until we share our sorrows, and leave the beach, searching for somewhere warmer.