If you’re going to write about home then perhaps the best time to do this is after a prolonged absence.
This will likely be the last year I spend any real time here. The squat little whitewashed 1920’s bungalow perched on the hill that I grew up in is being sold and my parents are vacating the county. I severed most of my emotional ties with the house years ago but I confess that I may have been re-attaching some of those in the last few weeks.
Every year since I was able, except the last, I have swum off what has always been known as ‘Little Beach’ at Pentewan. It wouldn’t be too much hyperbole to say I grew up here on the coarse sands. Childhood, adolescence, adulthood. A number of the formative experiences of those indistinct phases we all encounter have occurred within the confines of this little coastal village.
it’s quite something to have such a constant, taken for granted of course but now this constant has its end in sight I am sensitive to my time here. Finality is a powerful impetus. As I approach thirty whole years of age, I start to see life for what it is, or so I think. The remnants of a sea wall crumbling into the sea built on the shifting sands of a childhood. A glassy sea in June, capable of great violence but now appeased and peaceful. A collection of memories. A mark left somehow, small or large, far reaching or localised, both perhaps.
So now I am here again, home in a sun-drenched Cornwall in June, battling the same old vices of indolence and nicotine addiction but trying hard to appreciate every sunset, the immensity of the trees in full bloom, every cool swim in the clear sea, forge new friendships, write more things, draw more.
I heard somewhere that the mind is like a soft rock. When water runs over it it forms channels and funnels, paths of least resistance, through which it will flow more easily and erode further as we age. This is a great analogy. I suppose we have to force that water to flow differently. Follow new paths. Carve new grooves. Easier said.