Seagulls and sandy toes

3- buy a home by the sea- achieved!

The first thing to write is that no. 26 ‘see Orang-utans in Borneo’ has been put on hold. Sad though this is, it’s not forever and I’m not as unhappy I would normally be when a much look forward to adventure is postponed. The reason for that is because (and I can’t quite believe this myself) I’ve actually achieved no.3 ‘buy a home by the sea’.

Having grown up in the South West of England, I have many happy memories of time spent with sand between my toes and salt water breeze in my face. Even in the worst weather, there is something about the timeless, constantly shifting waves, the somehow unchangeable mass of the ocean that I find reassuring. Its emotions and moods an so often link to my own. However unhappy, cheerful or worried I am it reassures me.

These days as an adult (in theory I am such a thing) the sea adds an extra layer of reassurance. Many of my friends and family are scattered throughout the UK and all over the world. That great expanse of water can often be the thing that makes me feel close to them. The sea, whether it be in Australia, Singapore, Devon or Cape Town, unites us all.

My own ‘home’ isn’t in any of those exotic places. But it is two minutes walk from the beach and has a sea view (if you stand on one leg and lean out of the window a bit). Sharing that first night on Porty beach paddling with friends beneath a cloud studied tangerine – gold – grey sky, it felt exotic enough.

Exotic, and yet homely. Everyone told me it would feel different owning my own home. Like so many of my supposed ‘achievements’, I’d never have got here without the considerable support of others. So it isn’t the feeling of independence. It’s security. I can hang pictures up without worrying. There’s a sudden ‘nesting’ urge to potter about making things cosy. Lining up my books in alphabetical order. Shifting the plant to that corner, no maybe that one... For someone who spends so much time in cafes and transitional spaces, there is a sudden desire to spend time in my own quiet space. Terrifyingly new as that can be. (What was that noise? Zombies? No I’m on the third floor. There are drips on the floor. The roof’s leaking! No wait, I spilt my tea.)

Even if those same seagulls whose cries I find so evocative at the moment start kicking tiles off the roof, they’re my roof tiles. And sadly my roof bill.

Overwhelmingly, there’s a sense of ‘homey-ness’ about it. Sitting with a mug of tea watching Arthur’s Seat disappear and reappear through rain, sun and cloud.

And of course a house is only a really home when it is shared with friends. The door is always open. Except at night-time when it’s barricaded against zombies and axe-murderers.

Come and share a cuppa or glass of wine. Just try not to spill it please.