Alderney
Alderney, a comma in the ocean. A dot of land, a few miles off the coast of France.
I’m a newcomer to the island. The busyness of my old lifestyle replaced with days spent wandering through wild garlic and pink thrift; pausing to look at cotton ball clouds drifting by; listening to the chatter of oystercatchers, or gulls bickering perched high on haggard cliffs and below them inlets where saltwater spits from dark caverns towards ferocious tidal currents.
I clamber over barnacle-studded rocks, beachcombing, collecting ‘treasure’ – a spiny spider crab shell and a smooth white pebble. I explore a warren of World War Two bunkers which scar the landscape. Then surf barefoot through sand dunes to watch a tall ship, a pirate ship passing by.
At night I hear waves break in the bay and sometimes catch sight of a shooting star above the inky sea.
I have become a weather watcher. Storms roll in bringing deluges of hammering rain. The wind whips up and sea spray creates fleeting rainbows. Fog cloaks the island then lifts to allow glimpses of phantom sailing boats.
I notice how the coastline changes at high and low tide and vivid colours at sunrise and sunset.
I am no longer materialistic but have discovered happiness in nature and slow living.