The Sea

 

Chapter X

The Return Journey

A couple of days later finds us all on the shore, paddling, looking out across the mouth of the river to the land on the other side, across to the islands dotted along the estuary and down to the mouth where the river meets the sea. 

Gandalf ( it's his own fault, he's tall with long grey hair, a long grey beard and has taken to walking with a huge wooden staff which he whittles at a little each evening as we sit around the fire ) stands with his air of great importance, bare feet being lapped at by the freezing water and announces loftily in his West Country drawl; " There's three ways here and three ways back. By river and foot, as I came by, by railway and by sea. " I remember now that he wasn't on our little narrow gauge train but met us at the station.   

We all look down the estuary to the sea, past the islands and the inlets to where there are some small sail boats and other larger ships which could be fishing vessels. I wonder where one could catch a boat from and how far up the coast it would take you. Perhaps it would take several boats to get back, then a train and then whatever else was available. Suddenly I feel a long way from my home. 

Petra doesn't seem very interested in looking out towards the sea, but instead returns to forage for seaweed, shells stones and anything else she finds of interest washed up onto the shaley shore. 

Will and Sophie paddle and prod around for signs of life between the large rocks near the water's edge. Their parents sit smiling, proud and happy it seems. The air is chilly but refreshing and energising. Curlews come to survey us. Rhodri and Awena sit cross-legged on prayer mats and close their eyes. 

I reminisce about the coracles I saw people sailing in on a river in Wales one summer and think how fun it would be to take one across the estuary to one of the tiny islands for a different vantage point. This is how adventures begin, with a little inkling I chuckle to myself.

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As we wend our way back to camp for our final night, I think about how living on an island forges one's spirit. The saying goes that we're never more than 70 miles or so from the sea in Britain and perhaps this has somehow entrenched in me an idea of the sea as an escape. Perhaps I could be buried at sea I muse. Maybe I could write a will that states my wish and carry it with me so that anyone who finds me could decide whether they could carry out my final wish or not. Maybe I'd have to put some money in with it somehow. Paper money has become so scarce, it might be a good incentive. 

Now that would be an act of hope and trust wouldn't it.

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