Journey's End

I arrived in this seaside town at about 8 am on Saturday morning. It had taken another fifteen hours after my last posting. It was raining heavily as I walked along the seafront, searching for somewhere to stay. Most places were full; there’s a big conference centre nearby and there’s a media analysts conference on. I ended up at a guest house called The Golden Chain run by a woman called Jemima. She too was full but she looked at me, exhausted and soaking wet, and offered to let me stay in her daughter Lucy’s room. Lucy’s away. Jemima told me she’d set off for Las Vegas but apparently ended up somewhere else, helping a friend of hers.

I was grateful for a place to rest and I slept for a long time, only waking up in the middle of Sunday afternoon and, even then, I didn’t feel like doing much. I went out for a burger and then back to the room. Lucy seems to be an interesting person, with an extensive range of CDs, including many by Ezra Kire, and photos all over the walls of places she’s traveled and people she seems to have met, as most are signed. One is of a girl called Aliss H and there was a letter from Aliss lying on the windowsill. I tried not to read it but my curiosity got the better of me and I pulled out several sheets of delicate lavender paper, covered in tiny writing. I won’t break Aliss’s confidences but I will tell you that the last line was, “I’ve got to get out of here.” I know that feeling so well.

Later on I went for a walk on the promenade. Up on the hills, the white painted houses glowed pink from the rays of the setting sun and I thought that this was a good place to take a break from my problems. Back at the hotel I found a book on the bedside table by Mary Robison, “Why did I ever.” It’s not a style of book I’ve ever read before (the cover describes it as minimalist) but it kept me interested until late last night.

Today I’m exploring the town a bit more. That’s how I found this internet café and decided to do a post. Now I’m off to check my emails. I’ll tell you more soon.