The sensation we call ‘feeling at home’ is, psychologically speaking, a sense of belonging and security. It is often bigger than physical space and intrinsically linked to our memories, and the symbolism we ascribe to different things in our lives. For some people, home is a person; for others it’s about language or memory. Home, for me, is a blue line on the horizon, that grows into a messy, foaming mass when you get up close and personal. Home is the sea off the West coast of the UK.
Growing up, I lived 15 minutes from the beach, and the stretch of the Wales Coast Path that spans the South coast of Gower was often my default for getting around. If I had planned to meet friends in Mumbles – a Victorian seaside town a ten-minute drive from home – I would often leave an hour early and walk around the cliffs. If I needed to get out of my head during a low moment, off I went, iPod in my back pocket and tangled white headphones poking out of my hoodie.
In September 2013, I was on the path walking into Caswell Bay – a wide beach that serves surfers, swimmers and body boarders alike – when I stopped and looked down. Frothy waves tumbled towards the shore below me. These were the same waves I’d played in since I was a naked, sandy toddler who didn’t yet know about embarrassment; that I’d been thrown into on Dad’s surfboard when I was nine or ten; that I’d been diving under and floating over with my best friends in the endless summer before we went our separate ways for university. I don’t remember if I said it aloud or kept it to myself, but the words ‘I don’t want to go’ are tattooed on my memory of it all.
At that moment I’d realised how significant a part the sea played in my conception of home. My parents, my brothers, the Swansea girlies – any of them could hop on the train and bring a bit of home to London; I couldn’t pick up these beaches – my beaches – and bring them with me. And though getting the train to Brighton or Margate was easy enough, they’re not the same. The waves don’t look like stampeding horses on a stormy day, and their softness and roundness feel too controlled.
The sea in the South West of the UK – the Celtic Sea, the North Atlantic, even the more exposed bits of the Bristol Channel – has a wild and unpredictable nature. There are days where the surface is like glass and you can swim for 40 minutes in total serenity, then there are days where you sit out of reach, watching waves the size of buildings pummel and smash the cliff walls below. Yet, despite her many faces, the sea has been a constant in my life, teaching me the importance of play, of being present, and of respecting boundaries. Being enveloped by her is both humbling and empowering; yes I’m small in the grand scheme of things, but how amazing that the stars aligned, or space dust exploded in such a way that meant I got to be here, right now, at the same time as the sea. And the moment I risk forgetting those lessons is when I’ll spot that blue line on the horizon again, and remember how lucky I am to be here.
At least eight of our ancient Celtic nations are coastal, including Wales and Cornwall. I wonder how far my association with the sea is inherited, passed down from ancestors and embedded in my own consciousness through evolution. For Celtic tribes and communities, the sea was a life source. It provided food, means of trade and travel, and stories that taught moral life lessons. Perhaps this is why being near the sea makes me feel whole – I’m getting to honour a tradition that runs deeper and is more elemental than I could possibly understand.
When I left London at 24, there was no hesitation. I walked out of work on my last day in a wonderful school, got a cold Diet Coke that dripped with condensation, put my snacks in a cooler, and drove the 300 miles to Truro with only one toilet break (which, knowing me and my bladder, is huge). I think it’s because, although I wasn’t going back to Swansea, I was returning to the Celtic Sea. I didn’t know a single person in Cornwall, but it absolutely felt like I was going home.
So, what is home for you? A person, a place, an idea? What does it look like? Feel like? Let’s talk about it and keep home alive no matter where you are.
Roots and Mooring Lines 
Tell me what you think!