Croyde and Baggy Point. Letting the Sea offer some Perspective.

Last weekend, a long overdue reunion brought me face to face with five men I had not seen for nearly three decades. Standing there, unsure whether the years had built quiet walls between us or left something familiar intact, I realised how easily adulthood convinces us that the past belongs in a sealed box. Yet the moment we gathered, it became clear that time softens far more than it erases.

Of the six of us, only one has remained a close friend, so I arrived with a touch of nervous trepidation. I need not have worried. Within minutes, the familiar mix of pub sports, beer and good natured competitiveness brought us straight back to where we had left off. More importantly, we took time to sit, talk and reflect on the lives we have led since throwing our ill fitting mortar boards into the air. No Oscars, no helicopters. Just a group of men with stories, mistakes and small triumphs to share. Honesty replaced bravado and creaking bodies replaced youthful swagger. We left in scatter bomb fashion at a time nobody can quite recall, agreeing it would not be decades before the next one.

Had this reunion happened a year earlier, it might have felt very different. I have long been my own harshest critic. I am not overly concerned with what others think, but I constantly measure myself against my own expectations. It is an easy slide into wondering what might have been or berating myself for not doing more. Yet I can look back on plenty of achievements and adventures. The meet up reminded me not to hold other people’s lives as a yardstick for my own worth. I had not expected to be moved by it, but I was, and I am grateful.

The days that followed carried a quiet afterglow from that day. I found myself replaying conversations and noticing how they softened some of the harsher judgments I tend to level at myself. It felt as though something had shifted, not dramatically, but enough to make me want to step back and let the feeling settle. Which is why the following weekend in Croyde with my long-suffering partner could not have come at a better time. The village, tucked between the dunes of Saunton and Woolacombe, offered the perfect place to let those reflections breathe and to wander by the sea with a clearer head.

With that sense of perspective still lingering, we set off the next morning. A fresh head, helped by resisting another bottle of wine, made the air feel sharper and the path ahead more inviting. The route required little navigation. Go too far right and you would fall off a cliff. It soon led us past a ford at Putsborough, a nostalgic nod to old England. Climbing out of the dell, that familiar childhood thrill arrived. The moment before the first glimpse of the sea. I have always had an affinity with it, from Tall Ships races to years on the Isle of Wight, drawn to its power to soothe and unsettle. A vast, ever changing canvas with the same hypnotic pull as a campfire.

This stretch of Devon coast is blessed with sweeping bays and bold headlands. Looking out over Woolacombe, three miles away, the uniform waves and early rising surfers dotted the scene. I have never caught the surfing bug. I prefer being on the water rather than in it. Even so, I understand the obsession. My appreciation comes from looking, smelling and listening. Theirs comes from being part of the sea’s shifting moods.

Following the path between bright yellow, prickly gorse, we enjoyed the rare luxury of having the cliffs to ourselves. The rhythmic white noise of waves and a strengthening breeze only deepened the sense of solitude. Signs pointed toward Baggy Point, where the view opened to the distant silhouette of Lundy Island. Spring warmth and birdsong accompanied us to the headland, and the quietness of the place seemed to echo the reflective mood I had carried with me all week.

Baggy Point did not disappoint. Towering sandstone cliffs, their strata formed over millions of years, offered a humbling reminder of our insignificance. This place existed long before us and will remain long after. More poignantly, it was once a training ground for troops preparing for the D-Day landings. Standing there, able to reminisce freely, I felt the weight of how many never returned. The contrast between their sacrifice and my own gentle reflections was not lost on me. I sat for a moment, gathering my thoughts with a sentimental smile, before realising the grass had left me with a damp backside.

As we turned back toward Croyde, it was clear we had timed it well. A long line of walkers now filled the path. Dogs wandered too close to the edge for comfort. Ramblers and reluctant teenagers were coaxed up the cliffs. Polite nods and smiles marked each passing. The final stretch revealed Croyde and its impressive dunes, hidden from so many vantage points. The return to a busier scene felt like a gentle reminder that solitude is a gift, not a guarantee.

At the end of the wander, we sat on the sea wall and surveyed the scene. Thirteen degrees, practically tropical, had families erecting deckchairs and building sandcastles. Six year old bodyboarders sprinted to the waves, trailed by fathers in tired wetsuits. Any temptation to join them faded quickly. A well earned coffee and cake awaited in the village. It was the perfect start to the day. With perspective restored and feelings settled, we strolled back to close the loop. That extra bottle of wine might just be opened tonight.