The azure waters of the Helford Passage lick quietly over
the seaweed laden beach outside The Ferryboat Inn, as the meagre crowds of
wealthy looking folk sip on their tea and imported lager.
The barmaid looks too similar to a girl I use to know and
she avoids my gaze, setting me ticking over and wondering what age can do to a
face. We didn’t part on the best of terms, but I’m certain my name escapes her.
Four Germans sit to the right of me. The women, in floral
linen suits chortle wholeheartedly, while the men sweep and tug on the brims of
their fedoras.
The rest of the crowd are quiet enough, exhausted and
drenched by the sun.
He, himself is high, relishing the opportunity to hang in
glib delight, tempting the free children from their hovels and be cursed by
those left to slave indoors.
I sit here counting down on seven days.
Seven days.
Seven days to awkwardness and impending gut emptiness, when
I fly to the island to see my senorita.
The pain of distance, I know too well, was quelled without
much of a second thought. As is often the case, I had no part to play in the
decision making process. Oh, familiar distance. Oh familiar pain. The time has
come to scrub out that heart on my sleeve.
I’ll take solace in something, although what that may be,
I’m unsure.
The waters are quiet here, gently bobbing the small fishing
boats in the ebb and flow of the river.
A white-haired man wearing a white vest, faded blue jeans
and a skipper’s hat rows his boat steadily inland. He shunts the bow up onto
the beach, climbs out and heaves the little white boat ashore. The barnacles
make a satisfying noise as he does so.
The man steps unsteadily to the inn and removes his hat as
he crosses over into the cool shade.
The sun has become too much for his old bones and his skin
was stripped to tanned leather years ago.
He’s had his fun on the gentle waves as they slowly drift
out to sea.
Along with all the care and bile of the world, they slowly
drift out to sea.
17th June.
Helford Passage.
