Rhythm of the Sea, Might of the Cliff: Exercises in Perspective
From Emma Kathryn
You can also read this essay at A Beautiful Resistance.
“I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air.”
― Bram Stoker, Dracula
“But we are strong, each in our purpose, and we are all more strong together.”
― Bram Stoker, Dracula
It’s dark as when we wake and dress. The gulls have been awake for hours already, if they ever slept at all, or so it seems, their calls loud and abrasive in the dark of the winter morning. They suit this place. Their cries ring out, triumphant in the face of winter, or perhaps relishing in it. This is their place after all.
It’s still dark as we sneak along the corridor, quiet so as not to wake our unknown neighbours, and ease through the door, thumbing up the latch so that we might return from the cold to the comfort of hot coffee and fried food.
The moon is still high in the sky and the orange sodium light of street lamps glitter off the narrow cobbled street. Later on, even in the cold of late winter, these streets will be bustling with tourists, drawn to such places as they are (says me, as though I’m a Yorkshire lass and not from a valley town in Nottinghamshire). Now though, the street is empty, and we too exit to the left, taking the famous 199 steps up to meet the sun.
Whitby is one of my favourite places. It’s not the exotic far off location the envy of other jetset holiday goers but still, there is a charm to this small Yorkshire town on the North Sea coast, made famous by Bram Stoker’s Dracula. It’s a picturesque place, even in early February, but then the rugged bleak beauty of the British coast in winter is a particular favourite of mine.
The Whitby coast is broken in two by the harbour lighthouses. The west coast beach is a glorious stretch of fine golden sand, lined by colourful beach huts and even in the winter months, you might mistake surfers in their slick black suits for seals that also frequent this area.
The east coast though is my favourite. It is rugged and gothic with a wild and romantic air about it. You can’t help but gaze up, see the church clinging to the cliff top and the abbey overlooking it all in all of its ruined glory and feel a sense of wonder. It is easy to see why such a sight might have inspired the beautifully seductive horror of Dracula.
Now though, as the dark of night begins to give way to the first splash of light on the horizon, our climb up the steps having woken sleep heavy legs, the street and the beaches seem so far away, still snuggled in the dark while the light seeps into the day at the top of the world. It’s cold up the top, freezing. It numbs exposed flesh, fingers and forehead, pinches at my ears. It doesn’t matter, feels great in fact. Invigorating. The moon overlooks the harbour where even now, fishing boats, small from up here, leave the harbour or get ready to. Further up the harbour, pleasure boats glitter in their moorings.
We walk around the graveyard as the sky begins to glow orange and red. The sun rises behind the abbey. Out across the bay, the early light reveals distant mist shrouded cliffs. By the time we leave, descending to the sea’s edge once more, the sky pales with early morning light, the bright sunset giving way to thin clouds and grey skies and always that biting wind.
On the beach we are alone, having passed the early risers, binmen doing their rounds and an insane amount of joggers. The tide is just going out and only a small patch of sand is available to us. In another hour, the sea will have retreated enough to reveal huge rocks that defend the cliff and more beach, leading to a stone pier and a series of small inlets and beaches accessible only at low tide.
I feel small here. It’s a comforting feeling, a reminder of my place in the world. An exercise in perspective that’s as cleansing for the soul, the spirit, as the fresh air is for the body, bringing with it a clarity of mind. It energises with a strength that is as deep and wide as the sea, a quiet power felt at the very core of the self. The macrocosm of the universe viewed through the microcosm of this moment, and in this a reminder that the rhythms of the sea erode the might of the cliff rocks over time. The small and gentle do have power, and when we come together, that power is enough so that even the might of the strong will crumble.
“Once again...welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring.”― Bram Stoker, Dracula
EMMA KATHRYN
Emma Kathryn, practises traditional British witchcraft, Vodou and Obeah, a mixture representing her heritage. She lives in the sticks with her family where she reads tarot, practises witchcraft and drink copious amounts of coffee.
This was beautiful - thank you. Then I scrolled down and you radiant beauty like the beauty you experienced and shared. thank you.
Beauty, eh?