Photo: Trevor Fletcher
https://flashbak.com/the-morning-after-evocative-photos-of-london-1980-85-415672/
The room smelt of damp - something that couldn’t be helped in an old building like this. It was small - 10’ by 9’ - and in a mess. But it was my mess – the first place I’d ever had all to myself.
If the room was my sanctuary, its altar was the west facing window. It’s twelve glazed panels ran from floor to ceiling and because the window didn’t open, it had come to represent a division between the world within – my space – and the uncontrollable world outside.
For most of the time, the sweeping shoreline, the shingle beach and the vast stretches of open water beyond, changed only with the seasons. Winter became spring, became summer, became autumn, and as the seasons changed, so too did the colours of the landscape. From greys and whites, to vivid greens and blues and then as the year ended and decayed, the colours of rust.
But there were other shorter and less predictable cycles of nature that demanded respect and instilled fear. Amongst these was the wind – invisible and destructive - the whim of unseen air masses that gathered far across the ocean. The wind would attack the trees along the shore, their branches swaying back and forth in protest. It also fought with the sea-birds, forcing them to hang motionless in the air despite the anxious flapping of their wings. And the waves. When the winds were high, the spume-topped waves would crash with a thunderous roar on to the pebbled beach.
It was the nights that were ravaged by storms that held the greatest fears. I’d sit on my bed, wrapped in comforting blankets, as the lightning strobes lit up the darkened interior of my room. Once the blackness returned, I’d anxiously count the seconds…..one-thousand, two-thousand….listening for the rolls of thunder and tracking the storm in my mind’s eye, as it passed violently overhead. And all the time there was the regular rhythm of the storm-driven waves as they crashed on the shore and a second rhythm – my heartbeat as it drummed in my ears. I silently pleaded for the storm to end.
At some point, I’d fall asleep. To be woken in the calm of the morning, as a pool of warm sunlight spread across my face. In those moments between sleep and wakefulness, I’d give silent thanks that the storm was over. My newly-opened eyes would gaze across the room as if for the first time and then my gaze would venture out through the window. As a sense of trepidation about the uncontrollable world outside began to re-surface, I’d look away, reassuring myself with the familiarity of my small and messy room.
It’s beautifully written and filmed. Haven't seen it in years (hope it holds up). Full of British acting royalty. It’s a very soothing romantic watch, but I’m a sappy girlie girl sometimes. So you’ve been warned 😉