Solace (and sloes) by the Sea

To say that Herself's first day at college did not go well is to put it mildly. She got home tired and dispirited and feeling she'd made a serious mistake – it was a very sad sight.

In London, she'd have disappeared into her office for an hour, and I'd have poured her a drink and we'd have sat round the kitchen table discussing it all. Yesterday, I turned off the heat under my sloe jam and we went straight down the lane to the sea.

We walked along the beach at low tide, looking at the waves and the sky and the dogs running in and out of the surf. We had the same conversation we'd have had in London, but the beauty of our surroundings, and the perspective the sea and sky always put things in, helped to ease her furrowed brow in a way no amount of kitchen table psychology ever could.

I hope that we're still sending our troubles out to sea in a year's time, when it comes time to leave. It will mean that we've held on to our love of Suffolk's bleak beauty and can still feel its power. For now, though, it continues to bring solace to those in need of comfort, and sloes to those in need of jam.

A Process of Adjustment

The dog is finding it hard to settle. She paces around after me, looking slightly anxious. There's nothing wrong with her, she just has to adjust. She has to find the comfy, sleepy spaces where she feels safe and calm and she just hasn't done it yet, that's all.

Same goes for the rest of us. All this new stuff is fun and exciting, but sometimes you want old stuff - a touchstone of familiarity. I'm finding those touchstones in weird places. Hearing my Mum's voice on the phone is one. Riding my trusty old bicycle is another. Making the spare bed up with the linen we use at the beach. Making chilli jam or stirring the bechamel for macaroni cheese. I've realised that things don't make a house a home, although they make it look right. It's the life you lead inside your house that makes it your home, I think; the people you love and share it with, the meals you cook to nourish and welcome, the washing and cleaning and laughing at the dog attacking the hoover. The conversations and parties and moments of peaceful quiet.

We'll make this house a home; it's getting better with every day. It's just a process of adjustment. And in the meantime, we'll make it up as we go along...

A very pretty corner

There is, of course, absolutely nothing to do here. Apart from walk, or bike, and stare out of the window and listen to the birds. Internet shopping gets boring quite quickly when you never see anybody and earn no money, so, guess what?! Might as well write that novel.

Maybe even a psyche as addled as mine understands that if you give up your job and abandon your friends and family and your home so that you can write your book, what you do is write your book. It's become like a physical imperative, as well, rather helpfully; something I have to do, as well as want to do. So I have boxed myself into a very pretty, lonely, wind-blasted corner. Let's hope I don't end up chewing off my own foot.

The walk to Southwold... and a picnic

Southwold is Walberswick's nearest neighbour, separated from this village by the river Blyth. The sun was shining when I woke up this morning, in defiance of the week's forecast, so I decided to walk into Southwold to do some marketing (as the deeply old-fashioned refer to it). I could have gone on my bicycle, but walking is good for the back.

It takes half an hour, at a reasonable clip. Today I went through the village, along the river, across the bailey bridge, along the lane, across the golf course, across the common and into the town. I bought a strange variety of items, including some chuck steak and a computer cable (Southwold has everything) and headed home.

The sun shone, the birds tweeted and as I walked I started looking forward to my lunch. I contemplated going to the Bell (favourite pub) for half a pint and a sandwich, but I didn't want to leave the poor old dog alone too long. So I made a picnic and dragged her to the beach. Photo below. And sitting there in the sunshine, with my sandwich and a beer and the crossword and my little dog I wondered if anybody in the world was a jammier dodger than me.

Silence and the stars

Let me tell you something. If you live in a city, or even in a town, you do not know silence. Here in Walberswick, at the end of two miles of road leading nowhere but here, silence means SILENCE. It's so loud you can hear your ears, as Herself put it the other day. I've never heard my blood pulsing round my body before, but I'd better get used to it. The cooing of the wood pigeons is loud here, and the magpies do actually sound like machine guns. (They don't really, but it's quite a funny thought)

The other thing that's remarkable, in the old-fashioned and therefore best sense of that word, is the quality of the night sky. I'm going to have to get a book or something because every night, there they are. Twinkling away, perfectly visible, even milky in parts. Beautiful isn't the word. It's breathtaking.

If it wasn't so bloomin' cold all of a sudden I could lie on my back on the grass, looking at the stars, with nothing but the hooting of the owls and the beating of my heart to disturb me.

Beside the seaside, beside the sea

Well, here we are. Walberswick, I am in you. And so far, I am very pleased with you.

The removals van finally left at 6.30 on Wednesday and by 8 Herself and I were in the Anchor (the posh pub) having a very strange meal chosen by Herself and a massive quantity of wine. By 2am I was awake, yet again, and both still slightly drunk and hungover. Not ideal, but at least I didn't have to get up to go to work the next morning. (This has become a bit of a mantra over the last few stressful days.)

By Friday we'd got most things out of boxes and roughly in their right places, although it still looks slightly chaotic and we don't have enough wardrobe or kitchen storage. We even went to our new supermarket of choice, Morrisons, and managed not to row. We had the odd stressful moment, but R & H came for supper in the evening and we ate and drank in a relatively civilised fashion. I even made soup. And roasted a chicken, plus ca change.

Since then, it's been up a bit and down a bit. Up with a beautiful walk across the fields to the sea. Down with the usual internet and phone problems. Up with R finding that we did have oil and the boiler did work. Down with my back being rubbish and every movement being painful post packing and unpacking madness.

Herself is in the Big Bad City next week, so I will be unpacking slowly and exercising the back and going for walks and setting up my study and very possibly, sleeping through the night. You never know your luck.

Anyway, almost a year after the idea was first suggested, here we are. We have moved to the seaside and we love it.