I was following the footprints in the sand, tracing the steps of those who had gone before, watching the tide gently lapping at my feet. I felt alive to the elements. And the icy blue sky seemed to reach on forever, according to the polarised compass of my mind.
I had just stepped off the chain ferry from Sandbanks – the rich playground of wealthy footballers, minted celebs, and serial stock market winners – and I was killing time with three generations of family, beachcombing on the golden sands of Studland. We were collectively shaking off a heavy one from last night’s partying, time shifting in shots, from sundown to the early hours of Saturday morning.
Picking a path alongside the imprints left by windswept grown-ups, chattering children, and soggy dogs, I wondered how life is but a temporary trail of footprints to follow, ultimately washed away by the tides of time.
5-12-2021: Day 178
Old Harry was out. Nowhere in plain sight. I was picking my way, like a middle-aged, hungover mountain goat, along the precarious sheer white cliff drop of Dorset’s Old Harry’s Rocks. The wind was billowing, buffeting, and boisterously whipping across the headland, on this family afternoon stroll to shake off the spidery, alcohol-weaved cobwebs of a swansong in Swanage.
Old Harry, according to local folklore, was the Devil. And creeping closer to the cliff edge, I could feel the dizzying abyss open before me, and the fall to Old Nick’s rocky graveyard below. Somewhere I felt the chill fingers of mortality wrapping themselves round the base of my spine. I was reminded of a childhood fear of the great drop, and how I would tremble at the knees on family coastal walks.
And, thinking of Jimmy in Quadrophenia, revving his scooter along the chalk clifftops of Beachy Head, I still have no gambling head for heights these days, but instead a clearer mind for survival.
7-12-2021: Day 180
Our car was cutting through the torrential downpour, trying to outrun Storm Barra in the winter monsoon motorway drive home to Shoreham-by-Sea. As the mists rolled across the traffic lanes, and the tyre spray reduced visibility to mere metres, I was inside the steamy vehicle feeling the simmering effects of the reduction in my medication. Tremoring to the bone in the passenger seat, I was daydreaming of a date in the none-to-distant future when I could cut the invisible cord of addiction to these powerful psych drugs.
One day I would be back in the driver’s seat, all eyes on the open road to recovery. And I mouthed a silent prayer to the heavens beyond the storm. We were leaving behind a restless weekend of partying and popping with a three-generation strong throng of family members, and the Polaroid memories of Swanage were fresh in the synapses.
The world had been banged to rights, ancestors honoured, peace pipe smoked, and the twinkling stars aligned for a moment in time. And as the car sped through the storm, it was all back to the Island race, heading for the finish line.