I have had, for some years now, a sense of approaching my Finisterre, I have withdrawn from the misery imposed by the UK's post-Brexit dysfunctional dystopia and contemplated (too much probably) what the 'end of my earth' might look like. I have drenched myself in lush English countryside, rolling Wiltshire downlands, and ancient woods. I have perambulated chalk hills and admired undulating valleys, paused alongside crisply mown cricket greens and village football pitches, lent against oak gates, and waded through bramble and nettle trying to regain a sense of place and failed. I've lingered in the shadow of church towers and strangely angled gravestones attempting to re-connect with this once magic isle. My ancestry which traces back to the Norsemen, the ancient Priories of the south and across to northern France, speaks of people of the land, and travellers - it rattles loosely in my bones, a sense of knowing when I'm in certain places, an occasional calling to follow a certain road, drink in a certain view. All this is why, like a Pirate, I like to go adventuring.
I have to admit I'm a romantic, the bookworm in me sees mystery and magic in alleyways and castles. I believe in secret tunnels and treasure, and I eternally hope for the chance to play my part in solving a crime, or coming across a blue Police telephone box and stepping inside... In my youth my days were full of possibility, that I might find myself riding home in a helicopter or witnessing a pod of dolphins on my drive to the coast, or that the sudden appearance of a mysterious gate, or doorway might herald a wonderful adventure. I have fought to retain these wild expectations but somehow imagination becomes less a thing of wonder and more a fear of insanity, as the hope of magic starts to recede under the weight of worry, anxiety for the future, and the stronger desire for security and the bigger fear of the loss of it. Mundane concerns over ones physical body, the wear and tear that begins to show, all play their part in the diminishing of joy and the struggle to retain a belief in the endless creativity of life.
I have left the river valleys of my home, and descended down to the Cornish seas, where folk will tell you if you've a mind to listen, that the sea was never mans friend. It may feed you but it can kill you. The pernicious addiction that man has to conquer this beautiful, iridescent, moon-led kingdom continues to drive people across it, seeking freedom, adventure, challenge and a living. In a small shop in a popular fishing village, I was told tales of cornish fishermen who riding the highs and lows of modern-day fishing, grow bitter and old. I heard how greed and a desire to make it big and leave the hardship behind, drove one young fisherman to his death. He was found dead on his boat having overdosed from despair or drugs or both. The sea, at the end of the earth where the land stops is a beautiful and cruel mistress.
As I sat with my daughter alongside a cornish harbour eating freshly cooked squid and chilli with frites (very European), it all looked festive and idyllic but the locals look wearily on, as the grockles* noisily overconsume food, vistas, space and time. It's a sensitive balance between an economic influx of welcome income and an overindulgence. I see and hear all this but I too, look to the sea and am lost in dreams of pirates, adventurers, sea mists and smugglers. I find myself, craving a cottage where the gulls wheel and I beach-comb sandy bays with the salty winds curling my hair, as I live my days in the romance novels of the forties. All a wonderful escapism and not the reality of coastal living for most people.
When I found the blue door today, down some steps and along an alley where once, I was certain an Italian restaurant serving indifferent pizza used to be found, I was transported to the pages of Moonfleet and Treasure Island. This ancient door opposite the sail-makers loft, with it's tiny grille and studded planking, just by the harbour below the pier - what tales, what stories did it have to tell? What lay behind it? Should I knock? If I came back a day later, would it still be there? How I envied it the fascination it carried, I should be so lucky to age in such a way that when people came across me they were mesmerized so! As I stood there wondering, I could hear the strains of Elvis singing..."behind the blue door...'** and darker rum soaked baritones and basses thumping out lost sea-shanties with their battered tankards.
What delighted me most was the faint glimmer of that lost child-like wonder that the sea had gifted me, that in a door I had found a shard of my buried imagination. What a treasure to be found down a harbourside alley.
*grokkel/grockle - interloper, incomer, foreigner, tourist.
**Yes, yes I know Elvis actually sang a song entitled The Green Door but interestingly it involves similar
"The Green Door" (or "Green Door") is a 1956 popular song, with music composed by Bob "Hutch" Davieand lyrics by Marvin J. Moore. It was first recorded by Jim Lowe, which reached number one on the US chart in 1956. The song has been covered by a number of artists. The lyrics describe the allure of a mysterious private club with a green door, behind which "a happy crowd" play piano, smoke and "laugh a lot", and inside which the singer is not allowed.