The Salt Path

by Raynor Winn

It’s wild here, a corner where tides, winds and tectonic plates collide in a roar of elemental confusion. A place of endings, beginnings, shipwrecks and rockslides.

The viewpoint by the railings caught the air and rushed it up in a jet of cold, oxygenated, sea-spray fizz. I flew with the power of the uplift; alive, we were alive.

sheltering in his wooden hut surrounded by the gorse-filled air, amongst the rocks, sea and sky, his thoughts were set free.

It seemed fitting that we were finding shelter from the burning heat in his hut, shipwrecked from life, lifewrecked in the driftwood.

The heat was intense on the open cliff

top, bouncing back from the scorched earth and reflecting from the blue sea. Not a breath of wind, just heat wrapping around in a hot, dusty, sweaty, suffocating fog. Then we drank the last drop of water.

The thirst overtook the hunger in a primal craving for water: we needed it and we needed it now. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Stupid to think we could walk this path, to not have enough money, to pretend we weren’t homeless, to get the court procedure wrong, to lose the children’s home, to not have enough water, to pretend we weren’t dying, to not have enough water. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Shouting, crying, throwing the water bottle in anger. Angry with ourselves for making the wrong decision; angry for all the wrong decisions.

‘Take no notice of him.

I thought about Grant’s tale and why he felt driven to tell it. When you tell a story, the first person you must convince is yourself; if you can make yourself believe it’s true, then everyone else will follow.

Grant wanted to be the person he had created:

Our story was born out of self-protection.

So we had invented a lie that was more palatable. For them and for us.

What was the difference between the two stories? Only one word, but one word that in the public perception meant everything: ‘sold’. We could be homeless, having sold our home and put money in the bank, and be inspirational. Or we could be homeless, having lost our home and become penniless, and be social pariahs.

The more times we repeated the lie, the less we felt the grief. If we told ourselves the lie for long enough, would the loss fade away, until eventually we could face it without pain?

Rather than the walk being a time to get our thoughts straight and make a plan, it had become a meditation, a mental void filled only with salt wind, dust and light.

Things we thought we would never be able to bear were becoming less jagged, turned into round river stones by the movement of the path. It was still a heavy burden to carry, but just a little less painful to hold.

Now I’ve dragged you out here when you should be somewhere safe, resting, not hauling a bag round the edgeland of life.

‘We’re not running away, or hiding, you know. We should actually be proud of ourselves for doing this. Let’s carry on.’

We think it’s great what you’re doing. Good luck.’ We walked away, glowing. This wasn’t just about being homeless; we were achieving something. Even if we were old.

Swirled up, bound up in the storm’s ecstasy, part of a cycle of molecules without end. Contained, boundless, imprisoned, set free.

The wild was never something to fear or hide from. It was my safe place, the thing I ran to.

I was as much the storm as I was the dry dust and the high-pitched call of the oystercatchers. All material things were slipping away, but in their wake a core of strength was beginning to re-form.

I took a deep breath; then, under the water, fighting all my instincts, I opened my eyes. Instead of murky darkness, there were showers of white and silver dancing through the water, each swell sparkling with shattered, iridescent crystals of light. The moon, the source of it all, moving, swaying, refracted through the water to the sand and rock of the seabed. I went up to breathe and at eye level the water

fizzed with the same light. Moth took my hand and led me further out. Then down again. The sand deeper below but still in sight, he let me go, his arms stretched wide. Scaled bodies hung barely moving in the water, reflected light shimmering on their skin, the moonlit water embodied. I reached out to one; its smooth coolness flexed slightly away, and then resumed its place among the small shoal.

Bad things had hit us in the face like a tidal wave and would have washed us away if we hadn’t found ourselves on the path. Our journey had drained us of every emotion, sapped our strength and our will. But then, like

the windblown trees along our route, we had been re-formed by the elements into a new shape that could ride out whatever storms came over the bright new sea.