Monday, 9 February 2015

Walk to Broadchurch, Dorset.

My interest was immediately piqued when I saw this chap standing alone. There was something about the way he held himself, the casual aloofness, the confident manner as he nonchalantly ignored my presence even though I crept quite close to see if I could arouse his interest. Even though he was a mere cock, albeit a rather fine one,  I couldn't help but compare him to people that I know and to secretly admire his independence.

There is something suspicious, in my opinion, of people who cannot bear to be alone. Not the awfulness of and soul destroying feeling of loneliness. Indeed there is an achingly painful divide between feeling loneliness and contemplative solitude, but people relishing their own company and being content without the need of constant distraction and amusement have my admiration. 

I don my wellies and prepare for a muddy trek. Oh how I have missed my mud, the biting cold wind that cuts you to the quick, the starkness and brutality of the trees branches against the watery winter sky. But today is surprisingly gentle, snow drops bow their gentle heads in the surprisingly warm sunshine, crocuses wriggle their brightly coloured bodies out of the soft soil to join other delicate spring flowers in subtle shades of lemons, lilacs and dreamy creams.

I head for West Bay, otherwise now known as 'Broadchurch' after the popular TV series which will undoubtably bring even more people flocking down to the beautiful 'Jurassic Coast'. I have mixed feelings about West Bay. You have to look beyond the insensitive architecture, both past and recent, which sit alongside the unique and breathtaking sheer rockface. Bite a Crunchie bar in half and you have the honeycomb layers that tower over its beach.

 It's an odd mixture of wonky wooden chalets perched on the mouth of the River Brit as it flows down to the tiny working harbour, otherwise known as Bridport Harbour.  You have to elevate yourself above the pervading smell of fish and chips if they're not quite 'your thing'. There's a real knack to being a relative pauper and living like a king. If you can grasp this handy concept in life its a real bonus, so that the mundane becomes magical and the harsh truth is that no amount of money can buy you this gift.

I just possess it.


Frances said...

Sally, I really liked what you wrote here. And I do think I understand what you mean, and that I agree.

Sometimes, even in my very big city, it's possible to carve out some pleasing solitude and to know that you have gained something, not lost it.


Chris Stovell said...

There's never very much spare money here but fortunately, like you, I feel rich in other ways such as being surrounded by wonderful views and having the freedom to enjoy them.