Posted on Monday, July 18, 2005 - 7:28 pm:

 
 
A weekend away with Isaac, travelling the West Coast.  
                                                             A world of pasties,   
twisted lovingly to warm any traveller. Of cream teas where   
a spoon smiles upon the pot and serves the scone with more   
than the required dose of clotted cream. Where men in boats   
cast out their nets and sit patiently for changing tides before   
fish whip the deck with sporadic tails.  
                                       Isaac has a compass and a map,   
which he sets down often on a stile or a stump and points in   
the direction our feet will take. We keep to a strong pace-   
striding over the hills ‘til our cheeks are red and lungs shout   
for rest. A flask of tea jumps from the rucksack as we sit   
absorbing the view from Grayers Hill. Gulls swoop far in the   
distance catching the wind through wide stretched wings and   
hover under the heavens like angels waiting for their new   
command.  
                                                        The cover turns down   
over Isaac’s gentle lines of lead- shaded hills and a farm   
sunken in the valley amongst the corn crops and fields of   
dozing sheep. Again we stride on as kings and warriors would,   
down towards the coast. Longing for our limbs to explore every   
path that allows entrance to coves of rock and stone. Harbours   
crammed with masts and chiming of bright blue and yellow   
buoys nodding frantically in the moorings.  
                                                             The daylight drifts   
beyond the horizon. Small golden stars huddle into the hill-  
sides and gorged land where the fisherman bring home their   
catch, collapse into a chair near the range and watch their   
wives gut and de-bone the evening meal whilst children clamber   
on their knees and poke each other mischievously.  
                                                             We find ourselves   
in the Hogs Head listening to ‘old men’s ramble' as they guzzle   
malt whiskey. Isaac dares me to a strong cloudy stout and we   
draw in salty sea air with every sip, resting our tired legs on   
rickety beech chairs. Lobster pots hang from the walls beside   
blue-grey paintings of swirling oceans and skillful knotted ropes,   
terracotta jugs and fishing hooks.  
                                                   With a yawn and a smile-   
Isaac and I dwindle to the nearest Bed and Breakfast, pass   
twenty-five pounds for clean sheets and white towels, a basin   
and a view over Kitty bay. We lie in our beds listening to the   
waves while our thoughts revisit the day. Isaac calls across the   
darkness to me and then I fall asleep wondering where Isaac’s   
compass might lead us tomorrow.