dreams of drowning

When I last lived in Spain, there was nothing between me and the sea.  Our street, Calle Virgen del Socorro, clung to the bare rock of Mount Benacantíl at the edges of the city.  From the windows of our 8th floor flat, the view was of infinity.

photo

the view from our window

I dreamed of tsunamis over and over.

Everything was clear – I would be sitting at our table chatting, or hanging out the washing on the balcony, when the water struck.  There was no time to get away.  I felt it hit me, cold and brutal, before I woke up gasping.  Over and over.  I have no idea why; I have never been afraid of drowning – at least, no more than I have ever been afraid of death.  But the sea that filled my senses through the waking day overwhelmed me as I slept.

So much of that year seems like a dream to me, tantalisingly hallucinatory – as though I felt it more than I remembered it.  Only those dreams felt real.  The laundry, damp between my fingers.  The sun on the white plastic clothes-horse.  The movement in the air as I turned to face the water.

That was my first taste of living by the sea.  The air smelled of brine and left a film of sea-spray on our hands.  Everything was rusting.  I grew rosemary on our balcony, the only plant that could withstand the constant battering of sun and salty wind.  One particular evening, I remember, the air was pink with dust, and the full moon rose just as the sun was setting.  Alicante was glowing.  Lucentum.  City of light.

The year itself was the most beautiful, most difficult, I’ve ever lived.  A hundred versions of me drowned by night; in my waking life, only the bare rock of me was left.  Six years of life have softened me with growth again, but I still miss the sea.  I never thought I’d fall in love with what killed me, but I have.

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a pilgrimage in two parts

II.

To the island.

In cities that
have outgrown their promise people
are becoming pilgrims
again, if not to this place,
then to the recreation of it
in their own spirits.

R.S. Thomas

The first pilgrimage I joined – entirely by accident – was to Santa Faz in Alicante.  I woke one morning to see the street below me thronged with people, all heading in the same direction, all carrying a sprig of rosemary, and I made up my mind to join them.  That was how I learned that rosemary (ros marinus, the dew of the sea) shares its Spanish name with the act of pilgrimage, romero, of which it is a symbol.

Alighting from the train in West Kirby, with a packed lunch and a copy of Laver’s tide table, I stop to pick an overgrowing sprig from a nearby garden to carry with me on my journey.

I have returned, as promised, to walk across the sands to Hilbre, a tidal island in the estuary of a river which was once reputedly a goddess so sacred that her name could not be spoken.  My destination is the “church in the sea” recorded in the Domesday Book; the home of St Hildeburgh, whose chapel stood here for 400 years but leaves no traces now.  The last permanent human resident, a warden, left two years ago; since then, although we visit in our hundreds, the only residents have been non-human; island fauna which, like the flora, flourish in our absence.

The route across the estuary sand is strewn with walkers, all heading in the same direction but (because we are in Britain now) all solitary, making their own way out to the islands.  I follow in their footsteps, feeling the soft shore-sand give way to denser, wave-patterned riverbed and – further out – channels of wet silt where lugworms and razor clams wait for the returning tide.  Following advice, I am wearing walking boots, but I long to sink my toes into the soft silt; so I unlace them, sling them over my rucksack and pick my way across the broken mussel shells to the low, sandstone ridge of Little Eye, and onwards.

Seashores – like riverbanks – are great levellers: everybody has a reason to be here.  Young families push prams across the sand, looking for the shelter of the cliffs.  Teenagers carry plastic bags of sweets and soda, hoping to escape the watching world.  Keen birdwatchers forge on ahead, laden with equipment and shod in even more sensible shoes than my own.  All around us, wet channels snaking through the drier sand tell the story of the shifting tide, how easily it leaves you stranded.

Middle Eye rises up abruptly in a sandstone cliff, with rough-hewn steps leading from the sand to the turf-covered plateau above.  English bluebells bow gently in the shelter of the island’s ferns.  The non-native hybrids have yet to cross this stretch of water.  Away from the wind, the air is heavy with their perfume.  Huge bumblebees tumble from bluebells to thrift and birdsfoot trefoil on the turf.  I pause to drink in the sunshine with the flowers, and lace up my boots for the final stretch.

The tides here play a trick – not breaking in receding waves, but steadily advancing, with a vanguard of white foam.  As I walk towards the sea, the sea walks towards me, at an equal pace.

Finally reaching Hilbre, I feel I am really on an island.  The Northern tip touches the Southern reaches of the Irish Sea.  I sit down on springy turf to eat my sandwiches, looking out to the open water, beautifully bereft of words.  I could not say how long I stayed, but it was long enough to fall in love with that strange, liminal place, between England and Wales, river and sea.

As the tide comes in, seals swim over from their sandbank in the channel, breaking the waves to watch us departing.  The walk to shore seems much shorter, somehow; I am walking towards a known quantity.  Home.  An ascent of steps and, suddenly, I am back on dry land.  A quick left turn towards the station puts the sea behind me, and all the colours of the town suddenly seem so solid – bricks, painted ironwork and broad-leaved trees; no sea-light to illuminate their mystery.

On the train home, the music in my headphones sounds tinny in my throbbing ears.  I take them out.  After a while, I realise I am humming to myself.  The absence of the sea leaves a space that only song can fill.