Flatland

 

Marcin Jozwiak

I sometimes wonder why I’m living in the flattest bloody part of the country, landlocked far away from the sea. Sitting on the loo, waiting for the kettle to boil or climbing the stairs for the umpteenth time in a day I really do have to wonder. Something keeps me here.

I grew up in a very different place. With hills.  And on the edge. You know where you are on the edge. 

Our council house had a bay window overlooking the roofs of the town, the church tower and the wide expanse of sea beyond the harbour. Not many council houses can say they have a genuine bay window overlooking the sea. And a palm tree of course.

We lived ‘UpAlong’ in the farmer’s world. High up. As opposed to DownAlong. With the fishermen down by the harbour. You know where you are, who you are when you’re UpAlong or DownAlong.

I think that sense of being on high, finding levels, stays with me. I feel most at home being high-up. Might be why I love loft rooms. There’s a sense of security in them. Might be why I like cliffs and rocks especially if I can be at the top looking down. A sense of belonging on the land, safe and poised, knowing the dangers below but not afraid of them.

Probably why I don’t really understand the Norfolk Coast. Or the Suffolk Coast come to think of it. I don’t understand the relationship, the fusing of flat land and gentle sea. Almost like an agreement. Where’s the clash? Where’s the fight, the friction? I mean it’s all very nice and it is pretty in places but I want cliffs and crashing waves and noise and the salty green smell of battered seaweed on the rocks.

Standing up at the top of a cliff overlooking a private cove, breathing in deep and figuring out how to get down to the shiny water is a lovely puzzle to figure out. Sandy dunes are nice but it’s all about meandering and drifting towards the distant greeny blue. A low flat sea is good for paddling in without getting rolled up jeans wet but I miss that moment of no escape as a surge of cold water rushes up your legs with a slap.

Walking back up the hill with two-tone wet dry denim and the memory of the sea chaffing the backs of your knees, to the council house with a bay window overlooking the church, the sea (and a palm tree of course) that’s something to remember. 

And sometimes I wonder why I’m living in the flattest bloody part of the country. Landlocked. Far away from the sea.

Colin Stevens

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