Unexpected Havens

"My perfect Sunday..."

Today we got up early and went for a walk to Cei Bach (“Little Quay”). Across the bay from its big sister, New Quay with it’s brightly coloured houses and Cornish fishing village vibes, Cei Bach feels like another world. We’ve walked across the sweeping bay to New Quay a couple of times, but today we opted to go in the other direction. After winding through the deserted Llanina woods, with its dense undergrowth, ruined buildings and river tributary that meets the sea, we followed the sheltered shoreline north, and found a completely empty bay, where the trees meet the beach. The shore was dotted with rocks and shells and piles of colourful seaweed. Karl found a rope swing and had a go. We climbed over old concrete sea defences and trunks of dead wood, faded and smoothed out by the waves, until we couldn’t go any further.

We stopped and sat and watched the sea for a while. I had slept badly, and I still felt under the weather with a cold that won’t budge, but as I let my eyes drift into the distance, towards the Llyn Peninsula and the foothills of Eryri, I felt my shoulders drop. There’s something about being so close to the sea, something about only seeing the natural world in front of me, that brings an instant peace to my system. Other than a couple who appeared with their dogs as we began our stroll back, we didn’t see another soul.

We drove back home via our little patch of land and had our breakfast on the picnic bench in front of the caravan. Everything is bursting with life: in our raised beds, the kale, strawberries, potatoes, beetroots, peas and Jerusalem artichokes are all doing great. The wild raspberry patch is swarming with bumble bees. There’s rosebay and campion and buttercups everywhere. Ox-eye daisies almost as tall as me.

The sun was out, but the wind was cold, and so after we’d eaten, Karl moved an old armchair into the polytunnel for me so I could warm up. Earlier that day, we’d done a little stroll around, and popped our heads in, and I was struck by the heat contained within, even though it was still early. All at once, I felt the possibility of the space come to life. It was so warm, and even though it was dusty and dirty, and we haven’t yet got anything growing in it, I could have stayed in there all day. I dozed on the armchair, visioning finding a second hand sofa, and digging out the colourful rug I got in Turkey when I was 17 (currently languishing in a storage box), maybe adding some fairy lights… Voila! A warm little spot for me to hang out in between doing jobs on the farm. I think I almost fell asleep, but was awoken by the sound of a tiny lizard scurrying across the arm of the sofa, which shocked me out of my daydream.

I then spent some time cutting up some coffee sacks that I got from work, which we’re going to put down as a weed suppressant between our raised beds. It was a treat to lose myself in a menial task, using my hands, unthreading the yarn, cutting through the fabric. It occurred to me that I’ve loved spaces like this my whole life. I thought about my dad’s shed as a kid - a proper Aladdin’s cave of tools and tins, and all the things he wouldn’t throw away in case they might come in useful. It wasn’t particularly comfortable and, like our polytunnel, it was a bit dusty, but I loved being in there. Same goes for all the dens my sister and brother and I made - under the stairs, behind the shed, or in the thicket of trees down the farm track out the back of our house. Later as a teen, hiding out inside the fallen trunk of a tree; or smoking on a stone step, hidden by a thick hedge. All the little havens of my life. While I love the open expanses of sea and field and mountains, there’s also something so special to me about the nooks and the smaller, sheltered places.

And then I thought about this page, and had the (currently) rare impulse to write, and so here we are. Posting now before I talk myself out of it! Happy Sunday everyone x