The cliffs were my favourite place. Sitting, feet dangling into the unknown, hands dug in to the long grass. Below the gentle rush and roar of waves crashing into the land, like thunder claps, and little droplets of salt water would reach for my bare toes to tickle them with coldness. If gull were to cry it’s harsh call a thousand echoes would bounce into my ears, but the peace could never be broken.
I remember running through the then vast meadows to get to my special place – the one lonely tree perched precariously on the end of the cliff. And even as I grew, the grass in the field was immensely tall, always touching my freckle prone nose. In storms the sky would glow, and the grasses, no matter how strong the wind whistled, would stand tall, drunken soldiers standing to attention.
And on sunny days, oh how you could feel the warmth seeping into your body, lifting your mind from all the worries and woes of the outside world.
The cliffs were no danger to me. They were a home, a friend, a sanctuary.