Northumbrian Coastline

From Alnmouth (on England's north east coast) train station there’s a mile long walk into town, it drizzles rain, the backpacks are heavy. Through the one main street – a shop, a couple of hotels and restaurants, and out to the end, overlooking the sea. Lunch break, then on along the coast path, onto the beach. And a little ways along the beach we pitch the tent at the end of sand where a bank rises steeply behind us – it’s covered in thick bracken. There’s a low rainbow on the horizon

then it stops raining and the sun comes out. And for an evening walk, blissfully unencumbered, we follow a path up on the high ground and walk that way back to the town. The last part, along the side of a golf course, then up steep steps to a cobbled street and on to the main street.

I have a longing for fish and chips. We sit outside the restaurant, in evening sun, share an enormous portion of fish and chips, C has a pint of beer, I have a glass of wine. When did I last eat out? Apart from picnics, I think it was February.

Walk back along the shore. There is still a stub of rainbow visible on the horizon.

What if the tide comes in and floods the tent? I say. There are two high tide marks, lines of squiggling seaweed, dried-out calligraphy, the barest black of sea-messaging. They form  meandering lines, marking where the sea has flattened the sand smooth. Beyond them, small rocks, and two shelves of sandstone pavements, which look man-made in their precision, a shelf that slopes downward to the sea, marked out into crisscross squares as if cut with regular and careful strokes.

C points to the straggly seaweed lines two or three metres from the tent.
It won’t come any further up than that.

The sea is far away from us now, revealing clusters of small rocks, some draped with yellowish seaweed, fat and rubbery with their thick pods plump peas bursting with life. The fronds hang from rock crevices and when the sea returns they will float upwards carried by the salt swing of the tide.

I’m struck by the movement, the constancy of it, the regularity and it feels as if this has to be the pulse of life itself, in this movement. Like breathing. Like sitting on a swing, back and forward, back and higher. It feels like homecoming too – living so close to the sea, hearing it all the time.

Seabirds call and whistle, the curlews rising chant, the low calls of night birds.
The whispering of the sea came closer in the night. I checked through the tent screen, the whispers and hiss of the small waves sounded so close, but the sea kept its distance, rearranging the black seaweed patterns at the edge of its reach, its fingers smoothing out the sand, crinkling its lacy black border.
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A small metal twig-holder (twigs, small sticks, dried seaweed) makes an excellent fire container. A little pot filled with water placed on two tent pegs across the top. It soon boils, add coffee, stir, then leave it for a few moments to settle before pouring into cup. Drinking this coffee with a slight flavour of woodsmoke I think as so many have before me I’m sure, how satisfying it is, drinking this coffee from a makeshift fire.

How close it brings you to something elemental in your being, how essentially creative it feels. And to be creative in this widest sense of the word, doing and making, fulfils something deep in the human experience. And being outside, and close to the sea and the sound it makes, and the seabirds and the sounds they make, and the sunlight and the sky with its thin and delicate patterning of clouds.

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All day the horizon line’s been etched dark and clear against the pale blue sky. Drawn by a draughtsman straight and pure and dark blue.

The day’s coastal walk from Alnmouth to Craster blurs into hot sunshine alternating with a cool sea breeze. The sea rustles or makes louder whispers, but never loud brass thumping bass. Coves with flowers – harebell, meadowsweet and C tells me other names I instantly forget.

Close to Craster, a ribbed cliff of rock that seabirds clearly love. The two figures on the end of the cliff are just about to jump into the sea.

The picturesque harbour of the village of Craster, where we spend ten minutes, before taking the bus (the only bus, which by good luck we arrive in time to catch) back to Alnmouth.

Back at the camp, I sit for a while on the shelf of rock and the sea air tugs, tangles with my throat and windpipe, emptying words like pitchers of salt and seaweed, shells clattering, and pours over the limestone pavements, placed in ranks like determined, over-determined masons corrugating and embellishing, laying out steps leading out of the sea.

Rivulets from small ponds (left behind by the tide) run round the edge, form channels, hurry back down the sand slope, where the sea shifts, long-legged, to the horizon.

I wade into the sea, waves cover my toes and ankles. I remember then, the last time I waded into water and swam in the sea. October 29 2019. Almost 9 months ago. But it doesn’t matter, soles on the damp sand – because every beach is precious I know this now.

The seabirds calling last night – curlews I know, and oyster-catchers and the rest whose names I don’t know. Before sundown on the walk through the fields and along the edge of the golfcourse, the swallows were diving and skimming low over the long grasses with heavy seed heads leaning over, attracting insects which attract the swallows. Such companions these birds.

The fleece clouds cover half the sky and the long straight cloudbars strung like washing lines, just a hint of pale pink in the distance.

Seagulls, lobster pots and a low growl, the deep breaths that the sea takes, after it has smoothed the sand, so flat and clean, with black seaweed decorations. A small black dog comes up to me. Its owner-stroller says hallo. The distant clouds spread with a muted, dusky dark-blue glow.