The Run of the Isham Gnome

I run.

I run and I run.

After days inside, sat at the table, watching a screen, opening tabs, closing tabs, crashing the system, rebooting the system, eating toast, wearing cardigan upon cardigan, I run.

It’s the most wonderful journey I’ve ever taken.

I run along the bumpy pavements.

I run across the empty streets.

I run past the evidence of irresponsible dog owners.

 

I run because all that matters is the run.

It’s not the most beautiful run, but it’s my run.

Legs push me forward. Eyes stream in the battle against the wind. Lungs fill with beautiful, beautiful cold air.

I pass the naked trees, still home to pigeons and squirrels. I pass the playground, deserted and desolate in the current landscape. I pass the pub, curtains drawn and door bolted.

I run and I remember that everything is transitory.

Everything moves.

I move.

I run.

 

I run and I think about the future when the trees will be awash with resplendent greenery.

I run and I think about the future when the playground will heave with children screaming in excitement.

I run and I think about the future when the soft glow of the pub spills out onto the pavement.

I run and I think. All my best thinking is done when blood is pulsing to my extremities.

 

My journey continues.

I know where I’m going. Where I always go.

I run to the water.

I run alongside the water and inhale the industrial sea air.

It may not be very far, and it may not take very long, yet, as with all journeys, it is the movement that matters. The propulsion of existence. I exist and I run. 

I run the same route. Feet take the same steps. Eyes take in the same sights.

The broken gate, the wonky street sign, the Mr Men mosaic, the alien sticker on the lamppost, the abandoned scooter, the teddy in the window, the wall with the chunk missing.

I see them all. Every time. Every run.

Yet I run to the water and I don’t know what will greet me.

Tide in? Tide out? Choppy? Still? Swans in? Swans out? Oystercatchers? Sandpipers? Fishing? Beachcombers? Sea glass? Sun? Cloud? 

The transient nature of the sea keeps calling me back.

I run to it.

I run away from it.

 

But I know it won’t be long before the need to run catches me once more.

Going Nowhere

Warning: this post contains no travel.

I am a mover, a traveller, a can't-stay-still-er. I like to be DOING something. Most of the time anyway. Doing stuff: better than not doing stuff.

But I've found a magical place where I don't want to do anything. Or go anywhere. Or move.

To be honest, I'm annoyed at myself that I didn't think about it before. I love the look of them, I love everything that they represent, I love the nostalgia and the purity of them. Why haven't I thought about it before?

The place in question?

A beach hut.

The humble, British seaside beach hut along the golden sands of Bournemouth no less.

Fine, I lied a little; there was some travel involved. Early travel at that. I woke up super early (although the sleep was restless when it eventually came, much like on Christmas Eve) to take on the A31 before the traffic hit.

The beauty of the early start was that I was at the beach in time to ride my bike along the promenade before the 10 am curfew. Like a boss.

Then, the non-travel began.

I picked up the keys to my beach hut (which perfectly matched the colour of my bike - it was fate) and unlocked my destiny. Well, a wooden hut to call home until sunset.

I pulled out a deckchair and settled myself down. Sat on the prom, cup of tea and biscuits to hand, I started the task of doing nothing.

I sat.

I watched.

I listened to the sea.

I warmed under the sun's rays.

I smiled at everyone (and the gazillions of dogs) walking past.

I just smiled.

The best thing about travelling are the people you get to see. The people you meet along the journey or the people who you find at your destination. The beauty of the beach hut was that I got to see both these groups of people, but I didn't have to move to see them.

I'd sent an invitation to various people to join me at the hut during the day. Not everyone could come (which was fortuitous as the beach hut was not the TARDIS) but there was a steady flow of friends and family who came by throughout the day. I was there for the long haul, but I welcomed transient visitors, especially when they brought buckets and spades, tractors for digging, ice creams, chocolate supplies, satsumas and provided much needed coverage for when I went to the loo or for a swim (not simultaneously I hasten to add).

Then there were the people I met along the 'journey'. Although I didn't move anywhere, it was still possible to meet people: the arguing family two doors up who spread all the way along to my territory; the kindred football spirits who we talked to next door; the beach hut owner the other side who's been lucky enough to own it for almost twenty years and has the interior decked out like a junk shop; the fishermen I met by the bike racks who told me what they caught and how cold I could expect the sea to be (not too bad as it turns out).

And to add to this, there were the thousands of people I must've observed throughout the day from my deckchair shaped vantage point: the family of giant bubble blowers at the sea edge in the early morn; the diligent joggers getting it done before the crowds; the teenage gymnasts tumbling off the groynes onto the sand like superheroes; the toddlers straying into the paths of other walkers; everyone on the land train I had to wave to every single time they passed; the old couples strolling hand in hand; and not forgetting ALL THE DOGS!

It was a busy day and I saw so much considering I went nowhere.

After twelve hours being on the beach, I made a last sweep of the beach hut (they provide you with a broom and I've never enjoyed sweeping so much) and locked up for the night. The smile never left my face as I took the bike ride back along the prom. By that time I was a little chilly, tired and covered in sand. But I couldn't have been happier.

Next time I want to go somewhere that makes me happy, I'm going to go nowhere.