Between two seas
Living at the watershed
We sing no sea shanties in this upland valley of ours. Not with us living at the back of the land's lock-up, craving a little salt for our mutton. The long-reach swells and leviathans of the open ocean are unknown to us.
But still, the moon rises over Mallerstang Edge and peers down into our little rockpool. The tides still tug at the sleeves of our dreams. As the water of the whole world slowly inhales and exhales, half a day with each breath, it shuggles us gently back and forth on our bed of limestone, kicking up a puff of silt. Our mattress was once the bottom of an ocean. It is made of uncountable shells, unknowable sea creatures.
We stand at the dividing of waters. When I cut my hand and bled there, down in the maiden river Eden's lap, she carried the red dye of my veins with her westward. The rust of my life reached the Solway Firth and was gone with a cry of 'Westward ho!'. It sailed across the Atlantic into the evening sun. But when I set my sinews to the eastern slope of the valley, this morning before dawn, I crossed the watershed while barely awake. There, just over the high scarp, my tears in the bitter wind fell and flowed towards the sunrise, entered the Swale, were bequeathed to the Ure, handed off to the Ouse, were lost in the Humber. I spilled quietly into the North Sea, unannounced.
This valley where we dream always of water. It is a knot in the wood of England. The grain swirls so that east meets west. The gap is closed. Young male Otters come here to make the crossing from coast to coast.
Inland we may be, but in truth, we are just the garnish in a sea sandwich, here at the scrawny neck of Britain. Even in our Pennine fastness, it is maritime gods who vie for our souls. To our west the Irish Sea, gulf-stream warm and glittering. Impulsive. Surging inland but soon forgetting what it came for. To the east, the North Sea. Cold, pastel-shade opaque and patient. It lays its plans.
They would have you know, these ancient rivals, that they each lay claim. In winter the Irish Sea pours itself over the fells, carving its name in the gullies and gills. The North Sea beaches its boats and unloads the siege engines of frost and ice. They meet up there on Mallerstang Edge. We hear them clash in the Helm Wind.
Come spring, they are exhausted. Envoys are despatched. Oystercatchers arrive from the bladderwrack bays of Galloway and shout the odds. Sandpipers follow later and do the diplomatic heavy lifting. Northumberland sends Golden Plovers in smart suits. Woodcock come west, their flight-plans classified, and work behind the scenes. Eventually, the Eden sighs and settles and sculpts her whirlpools. The Swale stands down and whittles away at a waterfall. Mallerstang Edge begins again to count the stars.
Beautiful, as always. I love the thought that our tears reach the sea. By the way, did you make up the word "shuggles?" It's quite wonderful.
If I tell you you're beautiful, in that way you tell the land, I'm not sure you'll accept it. But you might. Do you suppose the land accepts your compliments. Knows how? Does it blush and turn away, questioning whether you're daft for saying it, or wondering what you're up to?
It's a magical thing, my friend, being allowed to tag along on these daybreak wanders, watching you admit your smitten-ness, whisper your ardor, explain your devotion, line by line.
Children who grow up watching their parents offer these sorts of gifts to one another are better armed for love themselves, less afraid of rejection and more naturally inclined to take the risk. And so, we readers, we learn about heat from watching you blow on the embers of your adoration, of place ...and time ...and the flow. And every bit of that is a gift that empowers each of us, gives us permission to see what can't always be seen, feel what we might otherwise just hope we feel, stand there looking the thing in the eye while we recite the reasons for our affection to it.
And that is a fine gift.
And so I thank you.