Broadstairs
Whenever I close my eyes and imagine a place where I feel completely at peace, I am here: Stone Bay, under the crumbling white cliffs, the call of seagulls in the air, the pink sunrise on the ripples of an iridescent sea.
This is where we came as children, learning to swim in the cold pools that form along the sands, playing dare devil with the waves, spending whole days constructing sandcastles and competing to jump or run the furthest.
In my twenties I celebrated New Year here with my university friends. We would cram into the tiny 1960's maisonette, play drama games, sit around bonfires on the beach on freezing December nights to plot our resolutions and reflections.
Now, in my thirties this is a place of healing. Since I returned to Britain, I stay here on my own. Friends or family visit, but through it all is the constant of the sea and my walks along the cliffs, pounding the sand and earth, allowing the ocean wind and light to heal me. I'm hungry for the sea. I can't get enough of it. When I arrived in October for a few days visit I ended up staying three weeks. I couldn't bear to leave. And when I leave I ache.
When the possibility of a forced return to Britain came up, I saw that twelve years of working and living abroad had left me without a real home. Where would I go? I am a very welcome house guest in my childhood home in Wales, but a house guest all the same. It is a home full to the brim of my childhood. When there, I am caught in my sixteen year old self. I've loved meeting that beckilina again and finding new habits with my parents, but there is a dependency so strong it bites.
So, it turns out, Broadstairs is where I feel most at peace. Atleast until I find some deeper roots. This little flat, two minutes from the sea. When my room mate and I walked our roundabout in Kigali in the weeks after my recovery, we fantasized about the British seaside. There is nothing as satisfying as a walk by the sea. And now, here I am again. Sometimes I think, happiness would be never having to leave.
This is where we came as children, learning to swim in the cold pools that form along the sands, playing dare devil with the waves, spending whole days constructing sandcastles and competing to jump or run the furthest.
In my twenties I celebrated New Year here with my university friends. We would cram into the tiny 1960's maisonette, play drama games, sit around bonfires on the beach on freezing December nights to plot our resolutions and reflections.
Now, in my thirties this is a place of healing. Since I returned to Britain, I stay here on my own. Friends or family visit, but through it all is the constant of the sea and my walks along the cliffs, pounding the sand and earth, allowing the ocean wind and light to heal me. I'm hungry for the sea. I can't get enough of it. When I arrived in October for a few days visit I ended up staying three weeks. I couldn't bear to leave. And when I leave I ache.
When the possibility of a forced return to Britain came up, I saw that twelve years of working and living abroad had left me without a real home. Where would I go? I am a very welcome house guest in my childhood home in Wales, but a house guest all the same. It is a home full to the brim of my childhood. When there, I am caught in my sixteen year old self. I've loved meeting that beckilina again and finding new habits with my parents, but there is a dependency so strong it bites.
So, it turns out, Broadstairs is where I feel most at peace. Atleast until I find some deeper roots. This little flat, two minutes from the sea. When my room mate and I walked our roundabout in Kigali in the weeks after my recovery, we fantasized about the British seaside. There is nothing as satisfying as a walk by the sea. And now, here I am again. Sometimes I think, happiness would be never having to leave.

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