BBA & HBWC Administrator
Andrea Reece
30 Winton Avenue, London, N11 2AT
Tel: 0208 889 1292
Mob: 07807 893369
Email: branford.boase@gmail.com
Press Enquiries
Andrea Reece
Tel: 07807 893369 | Email: branford.boase@gmail.com
The radio flickered, catching the ghost of a Scottish accent before the cliffs swallowed the signal. It was a reminder that Murlough Bay was a borderland, neither here nor there, a borderland between what we were and who we were about to become. The car was in 2nd gear, my life in neutral. Behind me, five cardboard boxes held everything I owned, ahead of me, the road to Murlough Bay dropped away. Loose change rattled in the cupholder, the entire contents of my life clinked and shifted behind me. My eyes scanned my surroundings, lichen freckles against the basalt cliffs. But I searched for the blue. The comfort of the North Channel. I felt like falling, a controlled descent into the only place in the whole world where I didn’t have to be anyone else.
The engine died with a shudder as I stepped out. The gorse bushes were huddled together, a coconut scent thick enough to bite. Murlough is a vault for things I no longer wish to carry. It understands the weight of my situation, standing guard over me like a parent without even a flicker of judgement. Up at the Causeway, the rocks are a stage for tourists, but here, the limestone is my very own private confessional.
The waves slapped against the rocks, a soothing thud that vibrated up the soles of my shoes. The bay doesn’t care about my grief or my boxes. It has witnessed ten-thousand tides and hundreds of shipwrecks with the same stony silence. There’s an odd mercy in that, it allows me to be small, a speck of salt in the wind, no more or less important than the kelp drying on the shore. It has a way of making your own voice feel quiet, which is why I finally built up the courage to unload my burdens and release the truth out loud.
I spoke to the gorse and the gorgeous green-blue swells. I told the bay about the failure, the mess, the terror of the road that lay ahead. It was silent. The wind didn’t whistle back, it just blew through the gaps in the stone, suggesting it had seen far worse than a broken heart. There is a strange sort of comfort in a place that doesn’t love you back. Murlough doesn’t care if I stay or go, and in that silence, I finally found the permission to forgive myself. The cliffs don’t flinch if I cry and the sea doesn’t stop for my stories.
I watched a hawk hover over Fair Head, it was a motionless speck against the
permanently grey clouds. It was to the air like I was to Murlough Bay. Anchored. Both of us waiting for the right moment to finally let go and see where the wind takes us. I traced a name onto the thick salt crust of the side window. A name I no longer wanted to carry anymore. A sharp realisation hit me, like an icy spray of seawater. I’m leaving but Murlough remains. The only place in the world where I can be truly, authentically myself.
I woke the engine; I could feel it echo off my beloved basalt like a betrayal. The hairpins were tight as the car laboured under the weight of my life, rattling in the back. Each turn took me further from the salt and at the summit, the cattle grid hummed a final farewell. The bay was just a memory now, only a smear of salt proved it was real. The boxes were still there, but instead of stones, they felt filled with feathers.