I’m lying flat on my back on a vast concrete plateau that juts into the sea – sun-warmed and strangely beautiful in its brutalism – while staring at the sky. I’m not crying as such. Good Lord, no! Then why are my cheeks wet? Um. Well. So maybe a couple of tears have somehow leaked their way down my cheeks – just because of the sheer gorgeousness of it all, you understand. The hazy June sun, edge taken off by a gauzy whisper of cloud, set in a washed-out denim sky; the crashing of matte-teal waves on rock the only sound breaking the otherworldly silence.
I often get like this when I’m travelling: overwhelmed by the surreal beauty of far-flung destinations when I have the capacity to fully experience them using all my senses, unencumbered by the constant distractions of work emails and social media and the urgent “ping!”, “ping!”, “ping!” of Whatsapp. Only now I’m not in some exotic locale; now, I’m on holiday in my very own home town.
