Drive, drive to the coast

And let the deepest blue surround you

For extra tranquility, try listening to this letter— I record outdoors so you get to feel this place

All, all those waves
And that old sun
Shining

So drive
Drive to the coast
And let the water
Surround you

I was standing by the shore
Pulled by the deepest blue…

The opening lines from one of my favourite Deacon Blue songs, The Hipsters. “Let the water surround you.” This week I bring you greetings from the coast, where I am indeed pulled by the deepest blue.

First sight of the sea: angry spume, roaring racing horses, green slate grey, brine scented air, salt tang on tongue.

Green slips through grey rain, on to blue. The wind remains, reminds: do not be deceived by the month.

From woolly hat, to sun hat. The sun shines throughout, and apart from some fairweather cloud the sky remains blue, a pale shade compared with the rich depth of the sea.

I am here on my own, but I am not alone. The blackbird keeps me company, morning and evening. And everywhere there are birds, and song. Familiars mix with edge-dwellers.

Cliff edges and headlands are coconut-scented with gorse, in what is an exceptional year for its blooms. Lower down the path is edged with wildflowers, hinting perhaps at a previously treed version of itself: bluebells, pale primroses, violets, and at the back of the dunes fringing one bay the grass is dotted with orchids. Later bracken will cover all their traces.

And on the chaotic tumult of rocky foreshore, a garden of thrift. Quayside or cliff face, it really does grow anywhere.

On the beach, my feet are palest white against the sand, as if the Moon herself has slipped down and pooled at the base of me.

I cannot resist. I walk to where the sea laps its tongue against the land. The water is, as expected, cold but refreshingly so. I stand watching the waves, letting them work slow hypnotic magic. I can, for a few minutes, see the appeal of walking into the water. But maybe not the North Sea.

As sand adheres to wet skin, I know this coast will return inland with me, and that in turn, I will be back. I have tasted, inhaled, salt and it is now part of me. Do we not shed saline tears? From that which we came, we will again renew the cord.

Until next week, when I will be happily home, yet leaving a piece of myself here on the shore.

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PostScript

Is having a little holiday.

Copyright © Michela Griffith 2025 except where otherwise credited