Eynsford and Beachy Head

[squirmelia]

I arrived in Eynsford at dusk and plunged my feet into the long soft grass. I then tip-toed along the yellow line that had been painted across the garden. My dad explained the line was to mark the location of a fence that will be taller than me and will surround the new house he intends to construct. I began to mourn the separated land, laden with childhood adventures and secret camps amongst sumac trees, but I don't live there anymore anyway. I have my memories.

I saw the sunset traipsing across the sky above the hills every evening I was there. When dawn came, I was woken by birds chirping, singing, bleating and then again, soon after, by my brother, lost, or checking who was sleeping in his sister's room. He does not remember.
--

On Saturday, my mum and I travelled to Beachy Head, East Sussex, stopping for raspberries along the way. I found it disappointing that we arrived too late to see the talking hologram of a shepherd, but we did stroll across the cliffs with tangled hair. The wind was so strong we could barely walk, so it seemed sensible for us to throw ourselves to the ground, laughing.

When we were convinced the wind had dropped slightly, we saw the cliffs, shining white, one after another. One cliff was almost completely vertical and the ridges looked like writing, and as we walked, the red and white striped lighthouse appeared in miniature around every corner.

At Birling Gap, the surfers clad in black wetsuits bobbed like seals amongst the waves, only appearing to take on a human form for a few moments when upright, catching a wave.
--

On Monday, the storm appeared just as I had planned to walk up the fields. As soon as the thunder and lightning had abandoned the valley, I walked through a field of tall green corn, slashing my legs with remnants of rain with every step I took. Soaking wet, I stood at the top of the fields looking out at the village below. I then walked into the woods, where I found I no longer had to just imagine the celebrations of youth that had undoubtedly taken place in those woods many years previously, because there was sufficient proof this time - elaborate wooden hut-like constructions, not created by me, and a few stray beer cans to complete the scene.

I trampled back down the hill and found the swings, where I swung happily in the rain, finally not too sad that my childhood had been spent in that village, that now looks so pleasantly green and lush to an older city-dwelling me.

Comments

[squirmelia.livejournal.com]

I suspect they might be 2nd cousins.