A seagull lazily bobbed just far enough out to enjoy the swell but not be carried to the shore. It was content to just submit to the rhythm of the sea. A couple flew overhead to join a small gaggle on the shore further up at their morning commune.
Cheddar is a place that looks like it belongs in a fantasy book, like Lord of the Rings. It's surrounded by ancient dark-stone cliffs and has water running through it in many places; brooks, rivers, streams. There are caves and walks, and the place is filled year round with tourists looking to see The Wookey Witch.
I travel out of the estuary, out of British waters, travelling west, across Ireland, Iceland and Greenland. Across the Labrador Sea, up across Baffin Bay, further to the Arctic Ocean and down to the Bering Sea and the Gulf of Alaska. It was there I travelled downwards into the water.
As I washed and dressed this morning I wondered whether fires are allowed on the beach. Over the past few months I'd been collecting and drying driftwood, thinking it might be nice to have a little fire on the beach to sit at and reflect or meditate.
The waves broke with a 'flop' sound, rather than a 'crash'. I loved that sound; as if the wave couldn't really be bothered to be a wave, but it forced itself to do its job.
I knew that this morning I was going to be 'paying for it' so after an extra hot, extra long shower, I worked some peppermint leg oil into my ankles, knees, wrists, shoulders; all the joints I could reach. I rummaged around for my 'workout' wear because I wanted that kind of support today. By the time I got to the kitchen I was a walking peppermint support stocking.
The light danced behind my eyelids as I took some deep breaths. The orange light soon turned into warm light, wrapped itself around me and in through the top of my head.
As I dressed and brushed teeth, the thoughts and inspiration grew and swirled around the bathroom. By the time I exited to put the kettle on I'd already settled on a title. It felt like a scene from that movie, 'Limitless'.
The beach road is lit for most of the mile or so walk into the village, so I sit with my thoughts and the sheep for a bit, and contemplate my pre-sunrise toothpaste-trek.
The darkness is definitely lingering this morning. It's about five thirty now and its still pitch dark. Usually I start to be able to make out a shape of something out there but not this morning. I finish my tea and curl up under a furry blanket with the sound of the waves lulling me down.
I'm stirred by a dog slapping his wet muzzle on my neck obviously wondering whether I've expired, and I roll over laughing. It's already a great day.
'Lundy. Southwesterly gale force eight expected later. Wind. Southwesterly seven or gale eight at first in southeast, otherwise northwesterly four to six. Sea State. Rough, becoming moderate later. Rain then showers. Visibility. Poor becoming good.'
Willow is attempting to open the front curtains by herself, so I help her achieve that, pour some coffee into my flask, grab my waterproof and step out. As Billy Connolly once said, 'There's no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes.'
There's a consistency and flow to the tides that I find comforting. On rough water days there's a constant sound of rushing water that's hypnotic. It's that I focus on now as I march up the beach, my muscles getting a bit of a wake up call.
By the time I've done the bathroom thing, put the kettle on and opened the curtains in the front, the sky is just beginning to lighten. I see one torch on the beach, likely an early dog walker. I get it; when I'm meditating to the sunrise I feel like I'm the only one out there. It feels like the whole world is asleep and toasty in their beds. It's just me, the sand and the water.