It's always the same the day they arrive. Once they get over the shock of the view, the sheer beauty of the ocean either completely calm and turquoise, sun shining or contrastingly, the vast expansion of crashing waves over the rocks throwing foam hundreds of feet up into the air.
The questions and statements are
carbon copies: "Do you live here, wow, you're so lucky, it must be so
beautiful","Have you always lived here?", "Is it really
lonely? Is it isolated in the winter?". Year in, year out they come and
the questions never alter. They are in love with the idea of living here, with
the sea, the sky, yes the dark sky and the stars. They'd look out across the
sea towards the Cape, gasping at it's sheer beauty, the sky and the water
becoming one.
Tonight nature is at her best.
Lightning darts downwards and splits the sea, the tourists sit looking out of
their windows with delight as they drink their champagne,I can hear one saying,
"This has to be better than the fireworks at Land's End."
My father and
grandparents and many generations before were born here, grew up here, worked
the sea, told stories of older relatives working in the mines - two contrasts;
a great expansion of light or darkness depending what family you were born
into.
My father told me to just take the
rough with the smooth, the beauty, the harshness, there is a community and they
will look out for you, you'll always belong, and as long as you make a living
that's all you can ask for and be satisfied. Now, you will hear the sea is over
fished and the mines shut down, you can't make a living any more. If you want
to stay you have to either get a holiday let or take the tourists out on a
boat.
I can see why they're bitter, they
look around and everyone's an outsider. I hear them say "They know
nothing of the heritage, no Cornish blood". But I still love to see the
holiday makers arrive - it brightens up my day, though I can't be part of their
lives for long, they don't want an old woman in her late eighties hanging
around. I always make sure to watch out my shutters for their cars to arrive at
2pm when they are allowed in their holiday cottages and I'll go outside
pretending to be sweeping the yard and they can't help but say hi and
ask their questions. I'll act surprised when I see them, "Oh, hello, are
you on holiday?" I'll say.
They see
an old woman, an old woman who knows the land and that's it. They know
nothing of her youth and I don't imagine they think she had one but I could
tell them a story or two. They'll be inside now saying how sweet I am, they
will say "Ah, bless her, isn't she lovely, do you think she has a husband?
Maybe he's died, she is really old."
Jon was the closest I came to commitment, and when I felt
myself getting too comfortable I scarpered, disappeared for a few weeks, I
couldn't breathe if he got too close. I don't want to be alone, now I'm old, in
this deserted place, but I don't want to be with someone either, tied down,
someone interfering, organising, finishing my sentences. I didn't want to grow
old and senile with him. But, on this occasion, this is all I want.
It's that
couple that just arrived, they look like us. I got my albums out and flicked
back through photos when we were twenty, taken on a the pinhole camera Jon made
from some ash wood. I couldn't bear it – it made my chest pull tight and my
breathing shallow - just like when I was young and felt trapped.
There's
not a damn thing I can do about it now, it's too late, I'll console myself by
saying "It's going to happen to us all, so maybe it's better that it
happens when we're alone so things aren't so hard at the end." It might
feel comfortable settling down in a warm house at night, sharing those years
with a special person, but one day you wake up alone anyway. I have the ocean
and the the call of the gulls to wake to and my memories.
He said it
was my hormones, my age, apparently you can lose your mind in your forties. But
he couldn't blame my wandering on hormones, he didn't like me being
independent, he wanted me to commit to him. We would have eventually started to
think as one, we wouldn't have had our own thoughts at all, it happens all the
time, I've read about it. No, I'm happy I've managed to escape that.
He loved
taking the tourists out on his little boat, just like the younger ones do
today, telling the same stories like an old worn out record, "You may be
lucky enough to see dolphins today, you'll see seals around Longships
Lighthouse but we won't get too close. They may lose their pups if we come in
too close. Look there's a shag." Or did Jon say a cormorant, I could never
remember the difference no matter how many times he told me to concentrate and
listen to the description, I still don't know to this day. He never got bored,
I think I managed to go out with him about two dozen times before I couldn't
bear it any more, hearing the same guided tour, the same response from the
tourists. He couldn't understand why I wasn't satisfied with this life but it
became no different than a nine to five job, saying the same thing, doing the
same thing, day in day out. We tried to make it more fun by telling stories of
mermaids and drinking beer but that got tedious too.
We weren't
a couple, I'd made this clear from the beginning, you can't be tied down in
your thirties. He accepted it while telling me that one day he would change it,
trying to make light of it, watching for my reaction. He didn't like that there
were others, sometimes tourists, sometimes locals. He always looked more hurt
if it was a local, he found it easier if it was a tourist knowing it wouldn't
last long. I'd say "What's so bad if you won't see me for a week or
two?" When I turned back up he would sing out "One day, one day, yes
one day you'll be mine, I will be the only one", we'd laugh and let it go.
One night
after a few ciders on the beach he took my banjo and added lines to his song,
"It's deep rooted, you won't commit, you're scared of being left..."
I told him to stop and he knew not to bother with that kind of talk again.
Those that
are still alive and stayed in this place know me as that zany woman who sat on
the sands playing her banjo, smelling fragrant, drinking with anyone that was
around, lighting fires, swimming naked in the ocean, waiting for full moons.
