The sky is murky, yet the sun battles its way through the haze. Tendrils of light glimmer on the sea, transforming the grey into an azure abyss. It is the best weather we’ve seen on Plymouth Hoe for far too long. My house mate Kathy and I have decided to make the most of it. 

 

The smell of the sea reaches me. Tangy and rich, yet indescribably earthy. It’s a scent that no human and animal can forget, nor wish to. If the sun could dissipate the entrenching mist, I could imagine these views were a part of a different country – possibly a different world.

 

We leap down steep steps. Our chests are heaving, but when we reach the stony shore, my aching limbs are forgotten. 

 

The mesmerising sound of the sea greets us charmingly. Mother Nature’s heartbeat is a sensuous sound that soothes the soul, it is only contrasted with the sharp crunch of pebbles beneath my trainers.

 

As a wave comes crashing in, I inhale simultaneously. It draws back out again, and I exhale. Any stress, anxiety, or fear are withdrawn, the wave merging them into the great expanse of soothing waters. 

 

I glance around and spot a cormorant. Its sleek blackness is polished by the waves. Its long neck acknowledges its prehistoric history. Only a small snow circle on its cheek marks a change to the bird’s feathers, and it is as though it is embarrassed in an age before colour. Perhaps it is. The bird seems unsure of whether it belongs to these shores, the bird drifts along multiple paths questioning which one to choose. It seems lost. It has strayed from its previous pack, its safe pack. It cannot find its place amongst these newer and larger seagulls. A drop of seawater runs down its cheek, a trickle of sweat that wonders whether it has made the right choice.

 

The bird swims with the current, before submerging itself in the waves, seemingly disappearing into the depths below. Kathy panics – the question of the bird’s survival is the most important question to her in this moment in time. After roughly thirty seconds, the bird emerges proudly with a small fish in its beak. The relief on Kathy’s face is palpable, and I cannot help but chuckle. After a while we sit in comfortable silence, admiring our surroundings. Once again, I breathe in with the tide and close my eyes. 

 

I’m not on Plymouth Hoe any longer. 

 

Instead Lepe Beach in Hampshire springs to life. Home. Across the water, the Isle of Wight beams at me, and a shiver of excitement tickles me, as I remember past holidays with family and friends, sitting ‘round a campfire in the sticky perfumes of a summer evening. The simple delicacy of a roasted marshmallow against the aromatic fumes of an improvised campfire is not a smell nor a memory that I’ll easily forget. 

 

I start to meander along the pebbly path and the D-Day commemorate stands before me, proud and tall. It glistens with the spray that has struck the statue. It is a simple creation, made of nothing more than the granite that can be found locally. Embedded is a marble plaque, with a description of the soldiers’ plight, and their subsequent win. It is a stark reminder, in so many ways, of how lucky I was to grow up here. 

 

A dog scampers by: it’s Pepper, my miniature schnauzer. She’s excitedly running away from me, ignoring my pleas to come back. She has found God-knows-what atrocity that she considers food, and is planning to devour it before I can catch her. Pepper sprints along the sandy shore. The wind both tussles her stone fur whilst sultrily whispering to me. She laughs a bark at her (already dead) catch. She is so confident, so free upon these familiar footpaths, that it seems a forbidden desire to stray. Yet she is limited. These coastal scenes will stale to her, as she becomes confined by the constant of a monotonous routine stroll along these sands. Freedom will scream at her through Southerly gales, and mock her inability for fear of change. She will glance out at the sea that begs to be explored, and wonder if she can. However, in this one moment of time, Pepper is content.

 

My eyes snap open, and I find myself on a different set of sands, in a different county. Pepper’s disobedience is replaced by a sweet Yorkshire terrier chasing its beloved tennis ball. The near island visible is not the Isle of Wight, but Drake’s Island. 

 

I am disorientated, my soul torn into pieces by the waves, and scattered along two separate coastlines.

 

Split. 

 

The question of migration or nesting prickles at me, like a sea urchin that spikes at the nape of my neck. One more year, and a decision must be made.