Good Grief 196

There are certain places, along the A1 for example, where you can see the succession of bridges, at Berwick across the Tweed, at Newcastle across the Tyne, over the Forth...and then there's these. The wooden bridges over the mud gullies that I have seen come and go since I was a child. They used to be rickety old planks of wood and then they became more sophisticated for this part of the world (hey, eat your heart out, Norman Foster!).
I used to scamper over these at high speed, racing with the agility of a young hare. This was my natural habitat.
It's ages since I have been this way. Time, tide, illness, infirmity, bad weather, death, have all interceded.
I wasn't sure I could be bothered first thing, and my energy levels are so dissipated. As I headed out it was in 'just do it mode'.
I walked slowly, mindfully, this time with feet (not hands like last week). I watched them and saw my ten year old feet that had quick stepped across here all those years ago. I still have the mental map of then in my head, the stony places, the sharp shells, the crossing from this side to that, the part where it is more mud than sand, the part where it is more sand than mud.
I felt the warmth of the land through my feet. As usual these days the tears just fell as I walked. I thought that it would have been a good time to bring ashes with me to scatter. We had talked about it and it has occurred to me several times now but it still doesn't seem right. Too much still.
I was happy to be alone. This place has known me, and I it, forever. It has watched me as child, teenager, student, with G, and then with P, all the times in between, and now.
There was no-one around so I stripped off and swam and then headed back...and, as I breathed, the warm air ran in and through me ....the return of the native.