When I woke, it seemed quiet and still outside, I wondered if it could be the day for a cycle and swim combo, maybe it’s finally summer. Even though the sky is depressingly grey I pump up the tyres and head out. I fly downhill past the estate where they’ve let the grass grow long in the meadow and I see the swallows and martins playfully flitting about, low to the ground, breakfasting. Passing by the avenue of Beech on the far side a sudden north westerly takes me by surprise, cold and strong, I wobble then adjust my grip on the handlebars. The opposing gust and speed makes it so loud that all other sounds are drowned out, it’s deafening, I can’t hear the birds or the simple quiet of a Sunday morning in the countryside. The wind is carrying a mizzly shower, determined I squint into it towards town.
The buzzard is predictable, perched on top of the telegraph post just before the thirty mile speed limit signs, sometimes he spots me and is worried by my approach but mostly he stays there, ever aware, head bent low, I pass by underneath him close enough to see the detail of his feathers. I turn my focus to the quick bend on the bridge at the river where a couple of years ago we watched with pure joy the magical progress of a single rogue sunflower growing skywards beside the stone wall.
At the edge of town I take the road to Cushendall, passing by the early morning golfers and walkers and on the slight incline I hold my gaze on the ruins of Bonamargy Friary. A favourite place, an ancient place, a sacred place, I tip my head in respect to the Black Nun. A left turn takes me out to the shore, past the campervans and motorhomes that the locals mumble and frown at, the road is uneven and bumpy and I see the ferry slowly making its way out to the island.
A little further along, at the brow of a small hill, the dramatic face of Fairhead/Binn Mór; the great cliff appears. Inexplicably angular and defiant from this side its sensual curve and openness hidden from view and only truely appreciated and understood out at sea from another perspective.
I have time so I continue out and stop where the road ends, I scramble down to the shore, unsure of my footing, slipping on the seaweed covered rocks. A desire to be at the edge; where I can watch the water moving, rushing in with the tide, the waves gentle but purposeful. Nature and landscape, my place. I think about this time of year, an uneasy feeling always lurks, a looming date, ominous, uncomfortable.
We don’t talk about it, there’s an obvious silence in the hope for peace, no trouble. So tricky to unpick. The fear, anger and sadness all knotted together, enmeshed in a frustrating mess, I stand to the side, removed, knowing I don’t have a part in it, I don’t belong, always misunderstood in my stalwart desire not to ‘pick a side.’
I notice the seaweed moving with the tide, stirred with gentleness and reciprocal respect, invisibly the rocks are slowly, slowly eroding. I watch the water moving constantly all the way out to Rathlin, the countless shades of blue, the flash of the lighthouse, the peaks of Scottish coastline beyond. This basalt coastline, born from fire but changing, acknowledging mother nature, responding and respecting. I don’t want the hatred, the violence, the threat, the unforgiving stuck beliefs, the absurdity of it all while the world is burning.
I take a last look at view, breathing in the beauty before I turn my back to it, hop back on the bike and head towards home. I turn the corner and the sun has come out, shining bright on the vitality of the countryside, there’s birdsong, there are orchids in the hedgerows and the heady scent of honeysuckle fills the air.
A lovely breathless journey to the sea... loved the gorgeous images of your colourful food creations, so much artistry on a plate! 💕
Beautiful and so real.