Last weekend, I was treated to a reunion with some of my old University Comrades. A meet-up that was an imperceptible 28 years in the making. Of the six of us who gathered at a neutral location in Birmingham, only one of them has remained a consistently close friend over that period. So it was with a slight degree of nervous trepidation that I went to this long-overdue occasion. In the end, I needn’t have worried. What proceeded over the next few hours filled me with joy and a reassuring affirmation of what ‘normal’ life is all about.
I won’t deny that a good dose of pub sports and beer helped break the ice and brought us right back to where we had left off decades before. We were always so very competitive with each other, and today was no exception. But more importantly, we all took time to sit, talk, and reflect on the lives we’ve led since throwing our ill-fitting mortar boards into the air and ploughing our own furrows. Nobody walked in holding their latest Oscar or arrived by helicopter. Not that it would have mattered. What did gather was a group of guys with tales to tell and their own faults, mistakes, and successes to discuss. Indeed, more of us were willing to reflect on where things had gone wrong or the lessons learned over these intervening years than sing their praises. It was by no means melancholy. Just genuine honesty, with slightly creaking bodies and a clarification that we can no longer drink like we used to. We left in scatter bomb style at a time that nobody can remember but with plenty of agreement that it wouldn’t be this long before we met again.
Now, this event could have taken a very different turn for me if it had been this time last year. One of my biggest problems has always centred around being my own worst critic. I’ve never been too concerned about what people think about me. However, what I am guilty of is judging myself in terms of whether I feel that I’ve been successful or fulfilled my potential. This takes me down a road of wondering what might have been or beating myself up for not doing better or pushing myself harder. I know this is daft, as I can look back on plenty of achievements, adventures, and times well spent. Nevertheless, slipping into a pattern of regret is a real pitfall that can be difficult to climb out of. The meet-up resulted in being a reminder to not always be so hard on myself or potentially hold other people’s lives up as a yardstick to my own sense of worth. I hadn’t turned up expecting to be so moved by the reunion, but I was, and it has left me feeling incredibly grateful for it.
Therefore, it felt timely to be spending the next weekend with my long suffering partner in Croyde. This village, sandwiched between the dunes and bays of Saunton and Woolacombe, provided the perfect backdrop for some quiet time to consider the previous weekend and the chance to wander thoughtfully by the sea.
Having resisted the temptation to open another bottle of wine the night before, there was a spring in my step on leaving. Only a cursory glance at the map was required, as this walk followed not only well-marked coastal path signage but also the reality that if I went too far to the right, I would fall dramatically to my death. Before any broad vistas were offered, the muddy track, which amusingly asked people to ignore their sat navs, led to Putsborough and a ford that crossed a narrow lane. Seeing water flow across the road is not a rarity, especially for someone living in Somerset. However, it does offer a nostalgic and quintessential nod to old England.
Following my nose, the lane drew us out of the dell below and into an opening sky. There is always a sense of excitement that comes before catching that first glimpse of the sea. I’m sure many of us have memories of childhood trips to the coast and being the first to triumphantly declare, ” I can see the sea.” It is a locked-in pleasure that never subsides in its ability to bring a smile and anticipation. Indeed, looking back, I have always had an affinity with the sea. From Tallships Races as a teenager to spending the best part of twenty years living on the Isle of Wight, the power of the sea to both frighten and soothe in equal measure has never been lost on me. A vast blank canvas that paints an ever-changing picture whilst commanding the same hypnotic ability that staring into a campfire can produce.
This part of the Devon coast is blessed with sweeping bays and prominent headlands. Stopping to look out over Woolacombe some three miles in the distance, my eyes are drawn to the uniformity of the waves and the few who had got up early enough to claim them for themselves. This part of the world is very much the beginning of surfing country, with all the tell-tale signs around in terms of bestickered vans and roof-racked cars. I will admit that I never got the bug for surfing. I’d much rather be on it than in it. That said, I understand why people develop a lifelong obsession with the draw of riding the waves. Whereas my sensory appreciation comes from looking, smelling, and listening to the sea. For surfers, their need to embrace the scene is to be a part of it. To feel its moods and taste the saltiness in an immersive way.
Following the well-trodden path between the striking yellow but spitefully prickly gorse, we are blessed by having the scene to ourselves. There is a rugged sense of serenity that being on top of the cliffs offers. It is by no means silent, as the rhythmic white noise of the waves and strengthening breeze compete for ear space. However, this only acts to widen that sense of solitude. Signs point the way to ‘Baggy Point’ and a level stroll that permits further opportunities to look out to sea and toward the distant silhouette of Lundy Island on the horizon. There is a spring warmth to the sunshine today, with the reassuring twitter of birdlife becoming more evident as we reach the end of the headland itself.
‘Baggy Point’ does not disappoint as a place to be. The towering sandstone cliffs rise from the sea with bold strata formed over millions of years. The sense of time that this produces is a powerful reminder of how incredibly minuscule we all are in the big scheme of things. I am a mere visitor to a location that has stood long before humans had any influence on the scene and will continue to do so long after we have gone. More poignantly, considering my reunion last week, it is not just that sense of time passing but also the fact that this area was also used to prepare allied troops for the D-Day landings. I can stand here enjoying the view, breathe in the air, and allow myself the chance to decompress. To feel fortunate that I’ve reached an age where I can reminisce so freely. That perspective is only strengthened when I consider how many of those young men that trained here never returned. Lives cut short to enable those who followed the chance to do what I am doing today. I take the opportunity to sit and stare through glazed eyes, gather my thoughts with a sentimental smile, and then realise that I now have a slightly wet bum from sitting on the grass.
As we turned to make our way back down to Croyde, it was clear that we had got our timing right today. I needed the opportunity for some peace and ownership of the landscape. To selfishly have it to myself. A long snake of people, having filled the car parks, were making their way along the coastal path and to where we had been. Dogs off leads getting too close to the edge made my palms sweaty, as a string of ramblers and reluctant teenagers being dragged up the cliffs by their well-meaning parents brought things back into focus. Polite smiles and nods as paths crossed remain the etiquette for such situations, with the final mile or so offering a view over Croyde and its impressive line of dunes that keep it hidden from many vantage points.
As the wander came to an end, we sat on the sea wall and surveyed the scene. The fact that it was 13 degrees centigrade ( positively balmy) meant that deckchairs were being hastily erected and sandcastles constructed as families gathered to enjoy the beach. Six year old body boarders ran gleefully to the sea, followed by fathers whose wetsuits had seen better days. Any temptation to join in with this was short-lived, as a well-earned coffee and cake sat waiting in the village. It had been the most perfect of starts to the day. With perspective in place and feelings filtered, we strolled back to close the loop. That extra bottle of wine might just be opened tonight.