Guest post: The Call of the Sea- a Lockdown Story, Gill Pawley

I am a child of the hills, the moors, and the mountains.

Not for me the lure of the seaside with its candy floss, beach huts and tourists.

Give me stormy skies, mustard-hued gorse, and a steady incline.

This was me for years. And years. Until the arrival of the corona virus. And with it, the irresistible call of the sea.
I was born in Lancashire, and like many of my generation, had the run of the village and the surrounding fields and moors. I knew the birds and the wildflowers, picked berries in season, and knew the best places to watch fox cubs.

Holidays were in the nearby Lake District and from a young age, I fell in love with that wonderful landscape. My Dad had a good friend who became an unofficial mentor to me - a journalist who had been a Japanese prisoner of war in WW2 and who in his later years, found solace in nature. Through him, I became a walker, scaling Loughrigg, Helvellyn and Scafell Pike, marvelling at the views, feeling the wind against my face.

School trips and Guide camps helped seal my love affair with the Lakes. In my young teens, I resolved that this was where I would live when I grew up. 

But alongside this was also a narrative which said that I didn’t like the seaside.

I can still hear my mother telling someone.

It was certainly something I believed too.

But, looking back, I have no real idea where this came from. Maybe from a time I can’t quite remember but my only real memories of the seaside are visits to Blackpool to see the Illuminations. 

Still, for whatever reason, this was me. 

And then life happened. I moved to London and met and married a man who had grown up by the Kent coast. As much as I felt defined by the hills of my childhood, he was deeply rooted in the ways of the sea. Through him, I learned about the need to respect her and all her moods, and to understand the sea’s power and the majesty.

But I was only ever an observer.

I have never been a strong swimmer- school swimming lessons had left their mark. So, family holidays by the coast always meant that I was the parent sat on the beach, guarding all the possessions. (Don’t get me wrong. It was also a great chance to do some reading on my own!)

My husband was also a sea swimmer. On one holiday in Brittany, he watched the waves, read up about the tides and talked to the local fishermen. Then went out. We’d watch him seemingly being buffeted by wave after wave. But he would return exhilarated, having felt at one in his element.

(Sadly, he was to die far too young and it’s totally right that some of his ashes were scattered at sea).

When it came to choosing a place to raise a family, the sea had her say in that too.

We moved from London towards Brighton way before it became a trend. Home became a space close to the South Downs but within an easy drive of the sea. A perfect place to raise two sons who enjoyed the benefits of both.

If you know Brighton, you’ll also know that it’s a fabulously creative place to be – quirky, warm, and colourful. I visit on a regular basis – meeting up with friends, visiting co-working spaces, having clients’ meetings and work events. Then, there are the great restaurants and cultural events. 

And, of course, the sea is there. And it’s always been nice to walk along the sea front chatting with friends. But calling me? No. Not at all.

That is – as I said at the start – until Lockdown 1.

Around May time, the siren voices began to call. Gently at first. But then as the days went by, getting stronger and stronger. But still, I resisted. I made excuses to myself about there being nowhere to park and that I hadn’t got time. (Really?)

What I was really doing was battling with those long held beliefs that I didn’t belong at the seaside. I was, after all, a child of the hills.

But early one morning, I drove down to Brighton (Hove, actually) with my notebook and a flask of coffee.

I arrived as the sun was rising. Fingers of light found their way through the ebbing night sky. Fronds of periwinkle pink traced around the clouds. And it was so quiet. I sat and listened to the waves. Really listened. And allowed the gentle pulse to soothe my pandemic nerves. I felt cocooned and cossetted by something bigger than just sitting on a pebbly beach on the south coast. I had arrived home.

Being a writer and creative mentor, I am also an observer (hence the notebook). And here too was joy. Because small groups of swimmers and dog walkers were out. Further down the beach, a group of women were doing a sunrise yoga class. Paddle boarders caught the early rays too. An early morning community.

After that first morning, my sea visits became part of my routine and I quickly realised that I was seeing some familiar faces if I got to the beach at a similar time. The father and son who paddled together for a few minutes. The couples who had a quick dip before work. The same dogs rushing in and out of the waves. 

Lockdown 3 has curtailed the dawn visits for the moment. But I’ll be back. And this time, with a photography project in mind, as well as developing my collection of sea stories that I have started to write.

I am a child of the hills, the moors, and the mountains. But I am also a woman of the sea, the waves, and the skies. 

Gill Pawley is a writer, editor and youth mentor. She is the founder of Inkpots Writing Workshops, a vibrant creative community for 10 – 16 year olds – where a love of books and reading, creative projects and kindness are all highly valued. Gill lives in West Sussex but family travel sees her regularly in Derbyshire UK (great hills) and Maastricht in  the Netherlands (not so hilly but lovely waterways).