Gifts From The Sea: A Mini Residency
Sometimes I crave the sea like a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. That sharp tang, the rush of sensation, the air's buzzing ions call me back each time. In January, I spent a fleeting day along the East Neuk coast, and it was so wonderful that I knew I had to return, to allow myself to steep in its rhythm for longer. This time, in March for a few more days, I came for a self-imposed mini residency with no expectations beyond breathing in the salt air, stretching my limbs, and maybe making something.
On arrival, Tuesday evening, the water twinkled in the last of the light. I wandered, not quite sure what to do with myself but knowing, at least, that I had arrived. But I felt slightly restless. A small book on the cottage shelf caught my eye—‘A Gift from the Sea’ by Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Within two hours, I had read it cover to cover. She writes of solitude, of women seeking the sea to find themselves again, of life’s seasons reflected in the shells gathered along the shore. A reminder, perhaps, of all the women before me who have stood at the water’s edge to reflect, recharge, reset.
The next morning, I set off along the coastal path. No expectations, just walking. The cliffs and caves along the shore seemed molten, as if sculpted by unseen giant hands, their forms fluid, organic, layered. I reached them just as the rain started, finding welcome shelter in their hollows. The sea roared on, untethered and undeterred by the rain. I saw only a handful of people along the way, each one offering a smile or a nod, small punctuations in the solitude. An hour and a half of walking, my limbs started tiring - a usually desk-bound body adjusting to movement again.
Then, I saw a heron. A single heron, poised on a rock, still as stone. Against the steely blue backdrop of the sea, it was breathtaking. I stopped in my tracks. It held its ground, then, after a moment, lifted itself into the air, only to settle again further along the path. This pattern repeated, pausing, flying ahead, pausing again. A silent guide. Look, it seemed to say. Look at the swirling waves, the jagged rocks, the sculpted cave cavities. Breathe like them. Dance like them. Defy gravity as I do. Or simply pause and observe.
Later, I read about the symbolism of the heron: purity, transformation, wisdom, self-reliance. A perfect companion for this moment of retreat, this stripping back of routine. The tea shop staff later told me he’s fondly called Harry. I felt at ease.
That Friday, the 'Blood Worm' Moon rose over the sea, casting a soft glow over the coastline. A full moon of transition, it signals the earth’s slow awakening, the stirring of new life beneath the surface. I took the moment to mark the shift, the next night writing spring awakening manifestations onto paper and feeding them to the fire, watching the flames carry my intentions into the night. The crackling logs, the dancing embers, an offering to the changing season, to renewal, to whatever comes next.
Each day, I swam. The first time, it was cold, bracing. It stung my skin and dappled me pink. The second, I braved it, breathed through it, and it was exhilarating. The water, a murky teal but clean, rushed over me like waves polishing a stone. I met a woman on the beach who longed to try but hesitated at the cold. She was from Latvia, drawn to the water, just like me. Alone but not alone.
On my last night night I picked up the last log to burn. It had three circles marking its bark. Earlier that week, I had woken at 3:33 a.m., startled by a sound on the roof that turned out to be pigeons roosting. I looked up the symbolism, 333, a number of guidance, reassurance, a sign of alignment. Maybe it’s all just looking for signs. Or maybe, in the stillness, without the noise of screens and schedules, the signs reveal themselves more easily.
Harry the Heron stayed with me. A series of lino prints and watercolours emerged from our encounters—no two the same, just as no two moments in nature are identical. This residency by the sea, a simplification, a return to something essential. The beach, forever my haven, where I arrive and know I have come home.
