I live with a direct, in your face view of the sea. It’s a moody old thing. Whenever I glance out of the window it is staring in as if it has a tale to tell, but it won’t speak up; it wants me to guess what’s going on, not just on the surface but deep down. Like I care, I project back. Don’t we all take each other at face value? A sea of humans with stories to tell and depths imagined, yet unplunged?
I walked into town along my familiar route; past Goats Ledge, the locked toilets (I know because I tried them, being caught slightly short),the dour little kids’ climbing frames, constructed by adults who’d forgotten how to play; and into the mouth of Bottle Alley, which, without its night time display of psychedelic lights, never fails to look like an extended entrance to an underground car park.
Today the sweet/sickly aroma of weed, skunk, grass, dope – whatever you call it – insinuates its way into my nostrils and before I know it I’m seeing lights and colour where before it was just steely grey on grey. I’ve noticed the smell snaking along the seafront more these days. I suppose it is a means of escape, turning off the faucet of reality; relaxing, forgetting. I find myself wanting to see every detail and though a mellow mood steals over me, I am sharp, alert, clear.
This is what “lockdown” has provided: A small window of walks that consume my senses with the extraordinary ordinary.
