East of Ely: 2: Boltholes

Boltholes. Mine lies at the end of a road that leads only there: a fisherman’s netting shed on the Suffolk coast, couched between river and sea. There’s a wood burner, a kettle, a bed. It’s November. I’m obliged to do nothing. I wake to quiet cacophonies: the flutter of tacking sail, the mutter of migrating birds. I’m up early, onto coastal paths, mudflats, meadows and marshland. It’s easy to get lost. The moon usually leads me home.

I don’t crave isolation but have found myself sharper in seclusion. I get to sort loneliness from solitude and reacquaint myself with that revenant muse. It speaks of secret things. It helps shape the dust. Free of work I’m free to work. It’s easy labour: books my tools. Reading leads to wonder. Silence shapes the thought. Later, the rhythm of walking will reveal the song. And once I have songs I reach for Marcus. He recognises the benefit I’ve found in solitude. I don’t have to tell him: he’s a good listener. His dogs eventually dragged him east, to the Norfolk coast, and there he found his own safe harbour.
Rilke wrote “I hold this to be the highest task of a bond between two people: that each should stand guard over the solitude of the other.” Such was our silent pact. We regathered ourselves; learned to let the outside in. And then we took the coast roads. East of Ely. Shore bound. We shared secrets. Shaped dust. And in the silence we found sound.

Pre-order 'East of Ely' here