I DEMAND an answer to the following question: why had I never been to Eyemouth before?
In response, I suppose I'd avoided the entire coastal area of the Borders after a visit to St Abb's some years ago. On that occasion, I didn't even get out of the car but turned straight back round. The place was positively pullulating with surfers,
all looking full of life and themselves. You know my views on the use of nature for "leisure-amenity". Nature is a place for poets to ponder in, not for the Shorts People to play mindless games.
But Eyemouth is a fishing port, and we wanderers prefer to mingle and observe where people are working not playing. Historically, the town is remembered for tragedy: in 1881, 189 fishermen (129 from the town) lost their lives in a storm. Today, it's a fine wee place, at weekends bustling fit to burst.
I wandered by the fish market. From a van, visitors could purchase rough fish and feed it to a couple of massive seals who bobbed goggle-eyed and sleek in the water. Down a lane, in the Smokehouse Gallery, I bought a cup with a leafy design and a key-hanger decorated with hills and trees. I'd have paid for the conversation, too. For, in this respect, small shops can be a boon to The Lone Cowboy, who rides the range on his trusty steed, Focus. The chance encounter, purchase of a newspaper, signing for a parcel, these are our parties, our glittering occasions, our soirées. See us chasing after the postman, crying: "But I haven't finished speaking to you yet. Please talk to me!"
Boy, but it was fine to have a yarn. Sometimes, it's so long since I've spoken that my voice gets stuck in my throat, having forgotten the way out.
At Crossing the Bar bookshop, I bought a second-hand Roget's Thesaurus for my collection (all the others have lost their covers through over-use) and chatted about literature, writing, newspapers and Eyemouth.
At the town's museum, my social life continued as an enthusiast told me all about the U-boats which had once prowled the coast. Enthusiasts make the world go round. You can warm yourself off their glow. I bought a small replica of a fishing boat. Either that or it was a replica of a small fishing boat.
I didn't stay on till evening, when I was told things could get "lively". I don't hold with that sort of thing. If you spell the word "live" backwards, you get "evil". Are you with me so far?
Coldingham is such a pleasant, restful place. Alas, there was a surfer. He came running up behind me, on the path to the beach, kicking his heels up behind him like a performing horse. He seemed self-conscious as, predictably, he headed for the water. I must admit his board-style cavorting looked enormous fun, which is another reason to dislike it.
At the car park, the nearby hotel had a Surfers' Bar. It seems Coldingham is plagued as badly as St Abb's. Such a shame for these pretty spots. I'm sure the locals don't mind, and I'm used to mine being the only hand going up to protest about things that others so commendably tolerate. Surfers probably spend more money than poets. I bet we could drink them under the table, though, pitting in the process our maudlin sensitivity against their extrovert exuberance. It's also debatable which of our two contending groups looks the most mangy. I think we just win it, because our manginess is genuine, and theirs seems some- what arranged.
There were multi-coloured huts on the beach. Immediately, the human half of my being kicked in and I wanted to acquire one, though I've still no idea what they're for. Maybe the surfers use them to apply their Brylcreem. A sign said: "Persons using the beach are warned against bathing at either end due to undercurrents." Hmm, sounded challenging. I headed towards one of the ends immediately, not to bathe, but merely to observe.
There, I admired a large, detached Rock That Time Forgot then made myself into a statue as I stood on the beach in the late afternoon. The weather was mild, the breezes gentle, the sky blue and grey. Back in the village, I took pictures of the Priory. My photo-collection is fantastically dull. There are hardly any people in it, just buildings, flowers and trees.
Back at Coveyheugh, soon it was time to leave. I always get a bit emotional leaving a holiday cottage. This had been the centre of my life for a week. I recall arriving, and think how every holiday has a beginning, a middle and an end. The trees, the birds, the deer and the river will remain, but I will be gone.
