our morning adventure at the edge of the sea

We snuck out like a couple of smugglers, tiptoeing into the maze of tiny cobbled passageways that held secrets and stories. It was early morning but it wasn’t quiet. Oh no. The seagulls, one on each chimney pot, were telling us in no uncertain terms that the sun was rising and we were to hurry if we wanted to catch it.

Dean had his bag with easel, paints and brushes and I had my camera. He was moved by the stirring light. I was excited by the late summer remains of the plants and flowers that lined the edge of the cliff path and all the chattering goldfinches we had seen feasting on the thistledown. We headed up the steps through a tunnel of weather-beaten trees, leveling with the red tiled rooftops and chimneys of the fisher folk cottages and then up some more until the big sea and the wide open sky filled all of our senses.

We made our way along the dusty path, waves crashing below, taking in the queen anne’s lace that was going to seed 

and the grasses battered and bleached by a season of wind, rain, sun and passing dog walkers.

There was dock, rusted and crispy, umbellifers large and small and dew soaked fleabane, ragwort, knapweed and thistle in the field over the fence. It didn’t matter if we didn’t see the sunrise. This light. This feeling. This beauty. It was all enough. 

The hedges were full of early autumn bounty. There were sloes, haws and glistening rosehips and hundreds of blackberries, the ripe ones just a reach too far. And while I was getting lost in the arc of the brambles and the impressive height of the nettles, the sun had quietly lifted out of the mist and was suddenly there, peachy, glowing and glorious, lighting up the hazy sky with its warmth and colour. 

I shouted to Dean across the cliff at the same time as he shouted to me. Our jubilance rang out over the bay.

And overhead came the goldfinches. They were excited too. Five, six, seven, my goodness twelve, thirteen, fourteen, I lost count. A charm indeed. They descended in some knapweed across the field, the swaying purple flowers giving away their whereabouts even though I couldn’t see the birds clearly. I wished that I had my big lens for a photo.

And then, a big white bird. An owl? Probably a seagull. No wait, it is an owl. A barn owl, flying low over the tall grasses, hunting. I watched it survey the field for a good while until it was just a small speck in the distance.

The sun has now been swallowed back into the cloud and Dean has gone back down the steps to find a good spot. I can see his luminous hat, glowing in the distance like a buoy. It reminds me of the sunrise. I am chilly and my belly is rumbling but there’s too much that I might see. I can’t leave yet.

The charm is chattering heartily down the cliff side so I try to blend into a hawthorn tree and will them to come back to the thistledown. Breathe, listen, wait. I turn around and I notice someone else waiting for the goldfinches too...

The owl is back, perched on a fence post, so close, closer than I’ve ever seen one in the wild before. It slowly turns its beautiful face towards me and for a long moment we look at each other before it takes to the wing again and flies away, not knowing that it had made my day.

I go and find my buoy on the beach and tell him about my magical encounter. He tells me he didn’t paint but has found everything he needed just watching the waves. We high five and agree that it's always worth stepping out before dawn and we remember a line from The Big Big Sea, a favourite picture book that I used to read my kids when they were little...

...and Mum said to me, “Remember this time, it’s the way life should be”.

Whilst the town begins to wake up, we walk back to our cottage and after warming up with toast and tea we head up the steep stairs and back to bed, our dreams full of our morning adventure.

We were in Robin Hood's Bay on the Yorkshire coast, a fishing town steeped in history and famous for its smuggling. We stayed in Sea Holly Cottage, in the heart of the old town and just a moment from the sea. You can listen to a reading of the children's book The Big Big Sea that I mentioned here.

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