Without Foghorns
Some days, 6:30am seems a little too early to be slipping out of the house for a walk on the rocky shore. But on days like this one, filled with the romance of old novels about the mysteries of the sea, I find it not only natural, but compelling, to get out there into the damp air, feeling invigorated by the smell of the salt, lulled by the sound of waves gently lapping on rocks, and surrounded by haunting calls of gulls and crows heard but unseen. This particular morning did not include the sound of foghorns, there at St Margarets Bay, but my mind conjured them anyway, as clear and warm memories from my younger days at the seashore. The feeling of isolation and solitude seemed not only to melt away the decades back to my childhood, but to transport me back even further, to a time of wooden sailing ships and the tales of Robert Louis Stevenson. Though I love the Gershwins' music, my feelings on a foggy day don't match their song: I do not feel alarmed, nor low and down; I feel at peace, calm and happy. On a morning like this, 6:30am is exactly the right time to be out strolling on the rocky shore.