There's something about revisiting old haunts. A bittersweet feeling in places that are loaded with memory - times that can never be revisited though the geography remains.
The long walk along the beach, scrambling over rocks, another stretch of sand, past the wrecked dredger and onward to the caves - the end of a long adventurous journey. Undertaken as a child it was a trek, a once-in-the-holiday expedition that would leave us tired and taking turns to ride on our Dad’s shoulders on the way back to home and tea. Today I stroll along and reach the once daunting destination in half an hour. The rocks still need to be climbed, but they are not so mountainous. The dredger is mostly gone, rusted away and washed out to sea. The caves are not so cavernous, and for many this stretch of shoreline may be a simple dog walk, good place to fish or take a dip in the perennially frosty waves. For me this place holds all the mystery and wonder of childhood summers spent with loved ones, heroes and equals alike.
It is nothing special, many would drive past without thought, or visit once and forget the name soon enough. But for my family it birthed great tomes of stories, phrases, nicknames, associations, and most importantly, a shared experience that forever binds us across time, distance and difference. This place is magical to me not because of it’s purpose or location but because of all it evokes for generations of my family – freedom, adventure, joy, friendship, family in it’s most remarkable form.
And it’s bittersweet because it couldn’t last forever – the very nature of returning means you left. People and places evolve, but the pull of memory transports people back and the place still holds traces of what it once held – wonder, love, innocence.
The long walk along the beach, scrambling over rocks, another stretch of sand, past the wrecked dredger and onward to the caves - the end of a long adventurous journey. Undertaken as a child it was a trek, a once-in-the-holiday expedition that would leave us tired and taking turns to ride on our Dad’s shoulders on the way back to home and tea. Today I stroll along and reach the once daunting destination in half an hour. The rocks still need to be climbed, but they are not so mountainous. The dredger is mostly gone, rusted away and washed out to sea. The caves are not so cavernous, and for many this stretch of shoreline may be a simple dog walk, good place to fish or take a dip in the perennially frosty waves. For me this place holds all the mystery and wonder of childhood summers spent with loved ones, heroes and equals alike.
It is nothing special, many would drive past without thought, or visit once and forget the name soon enough. But for my family it birthed great tomes of stories, phrases, nicknames, associations, and most importantly, a shared experience that forever binds us across time, distance and difference. This place is magical to me not because of it’s purpose or location but because of all it evokes for generations of my family – freedom, adventure, joy, friendship, family in it’s most remarkable form.
And it’s bittersweet because it couldn’t last forever – the very nature of returning means you left. People and places evolve, but the pull of memory transports people back and the place still holds traces of what it once held – wonder, love, innocence.
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