It was a Tuesday. Tyr’s day. A day for glory. And what could be more glorious than leaving the office and striding, as nonchalantly as possible on a pebble beach, into the sea?
I paid a high price for the sea – gothic arches, baroque domes and a world that was only just beginning to feel like home – and finally the weather had turned enough for me to reap the fullness of my reward.
I took a breath and fell forward into the swell, allowing the waves to cover my shoulders and startle my lungs. And living in Brighton made sense at last. It wasn’t a penny dropping or a thunderbolt moment – though storms were certainly to come. It was more of an undeniable tide of something akin to contentedness, gently rising wave by tiny wave.
Afterwards we sat not-quite-shivering on our black beach towels and raised a tin of gin to the pastel-hued apocalypse that was the setting sun. Then we turned around, slipped on our sandals, and crossed the road to the house we share.
I’ll admit it – we are blessed.