Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.
Needing to find a bit of headspace, I took myself off to the Isle of Portland, Dorset, to enjoy its mix of small businesses, quaint stone cottages, and living history. The sense of the past here always talks to me, calling like an echo resonating through time. It’s as if I’ve entered a world 30 years behind the rest of us and yet still quietly bustling with life. There’s something secretive and ancient about the whole place – a jewel in Dorset’s crown for someone like me.
It’s still largely untapped and I wouldn’t be in the slightest bit surprised if while standing out there on the shingle, the wind whipping through my hair, a T-Rex came lumbering along the beach, terrifying and yet wonderful in the same breath. Oh, and before all the dinosaur experts start messaging me about my choice of ancient beastie – I’m no dinosaur expert! Maybe it wouldn’t be a T-Rex, but this is my imagination, free and unfettered by reality. So, it’s also a possibility for me to feed the T-Rex peanuts from my pocket!
A favourite spot of mine (because I love interesting buildings) is St. Georges Church and cemetery, which overlooks the dramatic, rocky, peninsular. Once investigated, its mass of serried headstones, all slightly drunk and worse for wear, take us into a world of adventure, piracy, and even murder in a gloriously climatic environment. As part of its folklore, there are rumours of a nun that can be seen carefully picking her way on silent feet through the gravestones at dawn, just before the sun rises – a large iron key in her hand, her head bowed, her face unseen.
I miss the sight of nuns! When I was a small child we went to infants school in The Boltons, Chelsea, and halfway down the lens-shaped development around the church and gardens, was a convent. It had a large, painted statue of the Virgin Mary which loomed down over us as we walked to school.
I was terrified of that statue with its bleeding heart, and would run past it at top speed. But, the nuns themselves were a different matter. Dressed in full length black, with wide white edges to their wimples, and their hands folded under the material’s surplus, they often talked to the children and parents. My sister and I would call them penguins (much to my mother’s distress).
Occasionally, whilst waiting for my mother to pick us up, we’d see one particularly elderly nun who’d sit on the benches at the edge of the gardens and talk to us, handing out old-fashioned humbugs. Many years later I reminded my mother of one particular event when she had to pick me up in the middle of the day for a dental appointment and, unusually, she was late. Unperturbed, I sat merrily chatting to this nun as we both made friends with a black and white kitten.
Surprisingly, my mother remembered the incident clearly too, as she’d felt so bad about being late. But, she was quick to point out that coming around the corner and seeing me from a distance, there was no nun. It was just me on the bench with the kitten.
I reminded Mummy of the many times this nun had spoken with her, but my mother said, “But no dear, I know exactly who you mean, but she wasn’t there. That particular nun had died about three months before that day. I didn’t tell you or your sister because I didn’t want to upset you, but what you’re saying just isn’t possible”. This wasn’t a distorted memory for either of us…that nun was there, even if she wasn’t visible to my mother!
Back to Portland. When the sun shines it’s a truly magical place – the sea glinting and sparkling off the glassy ocean, the salty tang permeating your mouth and making your hair faintly sticky. If the weather is bad, it’s otherworldly. Full of dark skies and menace tinged with fear, the power and strength of the sea makes its presence felt as it stretches out icy fingers and releases its wild horses to crash and canter up over the land. It’s like witnessing a scene set back in time, a shipwreck unfolding right there in front of you. The smugglers are like black, carrion crows making their way down to the shore; their lanterns small, yellow lights against the darkness.
But, today it’s calm. Finding a quiet spot on the beach, I sit on a green cross-stitch blanket surrounded by polished pebbles. I close my eyes and let my mind wander, soaking up the sounds and scents of the place. It’s times like this when all those who’ve passed before me come back to visit – and I welcome them. As I think of them, I see them clearly, and hear their calling voices drifting through the breeze. Their words are too thin, too shallow, and too far away to make out, but the sense of them is joyful, unfettered, and free.
It’s times like this when my mind instantly moves to Arthur, my furry Shiba Inu who has shared all my adventures with me for the past 15 years. And, as I put my hand down to fondle his thick, velvety ears, I miss him and miss his presence and companionship. Just for a moment, I am lost – floundering around, I’m unable to comprehend the loss of his company.
Yet, almost at the same moment I feel him pushing his soft nose into my hand. Even though he’s back at home, likely stretched out on his pillow, our minds are in sync once more. It’s OK, he’s warm, safe, and waiting at home with his sister to hear all about my day out.
Comforted by understanding, I sigh and smile with the knowledge that I’ll soon be home with him. I gather my things to go back to the car. The journey will be short, but the pleasure of my day will last. And so, saying goodbye to the ghosts on the sands, I leave with a wave, promising to come back on another day, at another time, in another lifetime.
Are you feeling creative? We are proud to have a hugely talented community on Rest Less, which is why we’re so excited to open up a section of the site dedicated to showcasing the wonderful and diverse writing of our members. If you have a piece of creative writing that you’d like to share with the Rest Less community – you can do so here.