“Memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape.” — Janet Fitch
When I was a kid this is what all the edges and corners of my world looked like. This stretch of beach is where I grew up.
No matter where I’ve physically travelled, for the last few years in particular this is where my mind has been anchored as I have dreamed the story of my novel to life and then written it into being. After writing the first draft entirely overseas, coming home to this place feels more meaningful than ever — though as my fella lovingly reminded me, I possibly say that every time we make this pilgrimage home.
I stood here, wriggling my toes in the sand and taking deep breaths of sea breeze into my heart and lungs. My skin turned salty. I relished still being able to read the tides. On the other side of this island I used to share my apple cores with dolphins when I was a girl. I remembered that story and all the others this sea knows of me. My memories are salt-cured, preserved and embedded in the sand and shells and trees and sea grass here.
To travel so far from this tiny piece of coastline and to be able to return, to find this place still recognisable despite development and progress, is the sweetest thing. It doesn’t belong to me; I belong to this landscape.
At the edge of the ocean I made a cup of my hands. I filled it over and over again with salty gratitude, all the shimmering shades of gold and green and blue.
Whether with anchor or compass, I hope you find your way today to a place that cures your heart.