FLOTSAM & JETSAM
I think, that as humans first waded out to sea to explore what lay ahead, on whatever little rafts they had constructed, made up of hollow logs and tightly wound grasses, the world probably seemed enormous. The further they sailed (or floated, for that matter), the more they discovered of the wide and endless seas, and incomprehensibly far-stretched lands, the bigger the world seemed. Yet, paradoxically, the further man travelled upon the high seas, discovering just how huge the world was, the smaller the world actually became, as each beach and land and sea and continent was labelled down in a map. Finally, when all lands and seas had been successfully captured down on paper, the world must not have seemed quite so big anymore. The map, acting as a form of limit, and a restraint, removes the possibility of undiscovered lands, filled with pixies or cyclops or mermen, and instead cemented the firm concept of ‘here’ and ‘there’.
‘Here’ is easier to comprehend, soft sands beneath my toes, and warm sunshine on my face. Except it really is neither of those things, as instead deep in the throes of the turbulent and untrustworthy Scottish weather, where you’re getting weather-beaten and whipped by saltwater skies, and god forbid you’ve tried to take off your shoes in the bitter cold conditions. Shell Bay, on the East Coast of Scotland.
(I’ve decided to take us outside for my place as we have already spent an awful lot of time inside, these past 6 months).
It’s a simple beach, really. But then again, aren’t all beaches simple, composed of sea and sky and sand. What little else is there, in between?
Well, you’d be surprised.
Quaint seaside stores along the way sell canvas after canvas of local depictions of this particular beach. This seascape. And perhaps, despite having earlier thought that really, how could one beach differ that much to the next, you pause long enough to tilt your head at one of the pictures, and can recognise the headland dipping in at just the right angle, and the curve of the bay, and just the right content of moss and slippery sea weeds covering the rocks. And despite thousands of beaches, and thousands of these accompanying seaside stores filled with variable takes on the seascapes, you can still tell one seascape from the next. True, you’ll probably need to have visited the beach in question, but say you’re dining at the house of a friend, and notice a stormy sea hanging over the mantelpiece, you’ll instantly be able to point and say (this, assuming you have been there);
“well, isn’t that Bamburgh Beach” or
“Durdle Door at sunset?” or even
“that’s Slapton Sands, right?”
(Whoever names beaches does certainly love a bit of alliteration).
And you’ll be filled with a warming, contented glow, knowing that you managed to recognise the place from an assortment of strokes on a canvas, hanging in the home of a friend, and that you too have seen that section of sky, and that portion of sea, and marched your awfully wet walking boots through that same stretch of sand. And maybe, through sinking your heels into the sand, and leaving a trail of footprints, and staring up at the sky or out to sea, you’ve left a little part of yourself on that beach. Maybe that to you brings a form of solace, knowing that one day, you’ll be long gone, but a little part of you will remain on that beach, taking in a big gulp of salty air, and staring out to sea.
Of course, not every beach will be the same for every person. Shell Bay, as I mentioned earlier, will for me always be a beach misnamed. Shell Bay, when in fact it was always littered with shoes. Never pairs, always only one single and lonely washed up shoe. One big grey trainer, threadbare and missing a sole. One olive green flipflop, hardly visible amongst the seaweeds. One tiny bright pink shoe – the sort where you could house a little plastic dolly in the heel, complete with an entire outfit in shades of neon. The poor plastic dolly probably somewhere out there, bobbing in the waves, or sunk amongst the fishes. And looking out at these many sole shoes, littered in the sand amongst the torn plastic bags and smoothed pebbles, it seems almost conceivable that these shoes filtered in from a different place, one beyond the horizon, and in the distance lay a whole different dimension, a shore filled with puzzled people missing shoes.
I used to find this just so terribly funny.
“Why don’t they name it Shoe Bay, instead of Shell Bay”.
We walked at this beach an awful lot, and every time I managed to slip in this sentence.
And every time, no one laughed.
And whilst I was so absorbed in pointing out these forlorn shoes, and being swatted whenever I tried to go and actually pick one up because God child just think of the germs (when I thought saltwater was so terribly cleansing), the seascape around me changed. That is the beauty of choosing a place outdoors, beyond the safe confines of four walls and a predictable weather pattern. For some, standing on the same beach, taking in the same cove funnelling into a stack a spit a cave an arch headland stump lagoon shore cliff salt marsh bay, covered in the same sand meeting the sea blending into sky waves froth quell tide pebbles driftwood seaweed shell, will be a bucolic place, sheltered in their memory. Coming down to a pathetic fallacy of sorts, the sky will be rose-tinted, the sand soft, and the waves welcoming. This, on canvas, would be sky of lilac hues and warm tints, perhaps with a child playing in the sand, or a dog testing the waters in the distance.
By contrast, one could have quite the same spot, on the same beach, at the same time of year, with a forbidding sea painted in ominous shades of cerulean blue, of teal and cobalt and azure, against angry skies of oppressive slate grey, thunder and smoke, and an empty beach void of life.
Same beach, same location, but different place. In painting these landscapes, an artist might capture their personal relationship with the place. In traipsing down these beachside promenades, ice cream in hand, looking for just the right seaside painting, or little driftwood horse, buyers can take home a sliver of the place, to carry with them and eventually hang in their own homes. Pictures, paintings, trinkets and souvenirs, becoming snippet of a place, or a memory. A tiny Sicilian horse and cart beneath a seascape painting of your favourite beach, an embellished Japanese Omamori hanging beside a fan of wrinkled concert tickets, a broken snow globe you were given as a child, and some Venetian glass inherited from your mother. A decorated home becomes a quilt of sorts, fragments of other memory safe havens woven together into one large tapestry of safety and retreat.
