The appeal of the cliffs near my home is their wildness. Whether in the vastness of a blue-domed summer day or the savagery of winter there is something essentially wild in their demeanor.
Something a little scary, bigger than little me. In their wildness, the wildness within me finds context.
It may sound a little dramatic to describe the processes within my own head as wild, but I’ve not been able to think of a better adjective. I’m not sure if it’s got worse as I’ve got older or if I’m simply better at recognising this part of me. There is something within me which grows restless pinned to my inbox or trying to make sensible conversation. Impatient for significance, immediacy, presence.
It’s not always pleasant or polite – or even especially nice-to-know. You could ask the people closest to me. My family, who don’t get the photoshopped version of me. Moody, argumentative, or sullen and withdrawn. Whatever it is, it strains on the leash, rattles the cage and lashes out at those who deserve it least.
Music helps – as does making bread or the fire of whisky. Or possibly all three.
But the cliffs give context.
A vast backdrop against which my own small wildness feels indigenous, rather than alien and unwelcome. There is no awkwardness, no established protocol that I might accidentally break. Gloriously, utterly unobserved, but welcomed and known. Like I have snuck into some huge sanctuary only to find my name on the walls.
So, often prompted by my wife (who knows me best), I will pound the quiet tarmac lanes leading to the cliff path, trail shoes crunching and my legs unsure why we’re doing this again.
Until I reach the narrow uneven steps leading down.
Down for just a second into the shadows and then rushing upwards. Each step propelling higher as my head rises – seeking out the first glimpse of ocean, the first rush of sea air. The shreaking gulls eddy with the currents overhead and then, on the first bend in the path, at the top of the first climb, I am sucker-punched by the wind. My stride wobbling slightly, I regain balance and gasp – sometimes I talk out loud; compliment the cliffs on their beauty and ferocity.
The winter-bare bushes around me hiss and rattle, stray rain drops sting my face and the spray billows below me on my right. On my favourite downhill I high-five the bracken – or the occasional accidental stinging nettle. By now my legs have remembered why, and my lungs are pulling icy oxygen directly from the jostling wind. Each stride consciously, wilfully rebelling against gravity, entropy and old injuries.
I try and fail to chase down the kestrels that swoop and hover, freeze-framed in the melee. Each climb, short or long, simply a prelude to the rush down the other side. I am abandoned like a 4 year old, running only for the joy of forward movement, until the final climb back to the lane leading back home.
In the lee of an uneven granite wall I complete the last mile while the wind from the cliffs still searches for me, scattering misty rain spray above my head. The hedge to my right is alive with the indignant chatter of sparrows as I catch a glimpse of the chimneys of my home jutting over the rooftops.
I lengthen my stride, turn my face up into the now steady rain and feel something primal within me settle.
Don Lowe 