Good Grief 316

Belatedly catching up with myself ... a week on ...
We put each other's shoulders to each other's backs and headed back again; this time determined to stay the night as it was the last night of the season that particular spot was open. As soon as I got in the van there was a sense of company ... reminded yet again of Flann O'Brien.
It was a bit dismal and the light rain turned to a constant drizzle. I'd left it late of course so by the time I'd got there it was darkening on an already dark afternoon. All was quiet and when I rang the mobile number at reception the owner said to by all means go and have a look, but the ground is saturated and I won't be offended if you decided against it. I wondered what on earth I thought I was doing. I stayed. It was wet, dark and dismal. Pointless. Such a great exercise in futility. Pure mastery of the sheer essence of all that is futile. But I had a wander on the beach, got wind blasted and later, after a cuppa, we were cosy enough looking out on a wild sea. I read the paper I'd bought on the way, something I haven't done for ages. I called my friend in Cornwall who loves this area. It went to voicemail and I started a cheery message of being here and asking how they were and how their holiday had gone and then I heard my voice, it faltered, fell in to a choke and a silence and then I sobbed. Made my excuses, said I was fine really and I'd call back.

It was a wind buffeted night but a bright sunny morning with an extra hour for another walk on the beach and a call back to Cornwall before heading inland to find heads that had stuck in my mind for years. This time I was reminded of the masks of Greek tragedy and not of a character but a personification of emotion. For me, of course, it felt like a personification of grief, much as I seem to feel so much of the time. Projection of course, but I felt I met someone/thing that I knew so truly.