My sister and niece were still sleeping so I cycled down to the beach.
The Sunday service had just begun and I wondered if the vicar was leading it.
I noticed the randomness of this beach debris and it made me think again about narratives. This seemed to be perfectly representational of the episodic view of our lives and of my days.
It was lovely on the beach. High tide, the beach road had been covered and was re-emerging glistening in the sunshine and the joy of the satisfaction of cycling there on quiet Sunday morning roads.
As I cycled back the church service was finished and the small congregation was emerging. I parked my bike in the graveyard and went in to see if the vicar was there. I hadn’t seen her for ages. We hugged and she asked how I was. ‘Fine, fine’, I said, and started to cry. It’s a strange thing isn’t? I was perfectly happy cycling, beach meandering, bowling in to catch up with the whacky vic, and I start to cry.
There are these unguarded moments when it all is as it is.
Weirdly, after I’d mentioned my recent meanderings, we thought we both would like to walk out to Lindisfarne across the sands.
Who knows maybe it will happen but even if it doesn’t it was fun to share the idea.