Winter by the Sea

The powerful winter waves crash onto the shore, clouded in an ethereal mist of filtered low sunlight. I wrap my coat tighter around me, watching the seagulls flying overhead battling with the stormy gails. The waves wash in and out. In and out. I watch them and let go of thoughts. Breathe in, breathe out. The backstory is unimportant, but somehow, four years ago, a lost and struggling twenty one year old girl found herself moving from London to this tiny rural seaside town on the south coast of Devon. And now she’s here, still breathing, here to tell a story, a twenty four year old woman miles away from who she used to be.

Morning arrives. The sunrise illuminates the wall by my bed. Red sheets. Golden light. Warmth trickles across my naked skin. The windows don’t shut properly so a slight breeze finds its way through the gaps in the seal, just enough cold to remind you to check in with what’s occurring outside. A lot of the buildings in this town are run down and outdated. But I don’t really notice that anymore. You probably wouldn’t describe the town as pretty. But I like that; it means it’s quiet here. In winter, it feels gnarly and fierce and the people who stick it out in these isolating months understand the magic of winter by the sea.

In the spare hours of the day, I walk, and I notice the details that the tourists here in the summer miss. I wander alone down the beaches to the places that people don’t go to. I observe the tide and know when to escape to the hidden coves. I watch the sun and see when the angle is just right that my favourite spot to write is lit up in winter elysium. I see the fisherman who have battled the ocean and the storms for generations, I know that sometimes a nod is better than a conversation. I know where to find the hidden crystals, and the shipwrecks, and the fossils. But there’s no need for photographs. No need to put it into guidebooks. The people who know these places are few, and the people who discover them understand their sacred nature. The unspoken secrets.

It’s a small town, but it is filled with love. I think that’s what helped me to heal really. I often laugh about how everyone knows everyone: it is such a stereotype of a small town community. But there’s a lot to be said for that. When I first came here, I never believed that anyone really cared about others in this world. But I started to notice that this town was different. People asked how you were when you went into a shop, and meant it. People wanted to know your name. There was no agenda. There was no pressure. But there was always a hello if you were open to it. I opened a coffee shop here two years ago. I don’t really make any money. But I have created a space. A place for people to come and sit and talk. Or maybe cry sometimes. I’ve seen break ups, and breakdowns, and breakthroughs. I sell coffee, but it’s never been about the coffee. I know that and so do the customers. On the winter days, when there’s no words needed, we can just sit and listen to the storms. We know that in this life we have never been in control. Nature always wins. The people who live here in winter know that, and get to bask in the glory of mother nature at her finest: the deep sunsets, the wild storms, the snow, the ice, the morning light. What a blessing to observe.

In the quiet moments, there is such stillness and surrender to the elements. I have been here for four years now. This hasn’t just been my home, but my gateway to healing.