On the edge

Beach journal 2nd July 2026

West Pier, Brighton. 8.40am. 19°C cloudy, moderate breeze from the west. Low tide.

On Thursday I do not want to get up. The thought that evetually gets me dressed is that the tide is low and I might put my feet in the sea before the day lays its weight before them.

The city centre is a screeching mass of cars, buses, trucks and white vans. The roads are tight and overcrowded. The clouds feel low and heavy. On days like today I want to get away from everything.

When you live on an island and you need space to breathe, you can keep going until you get to the edge.

The strong wind resists me all the way. In the narrow streets by the seafront, it pushes against me. I wonder if my direction might be a mistake as my energy begins to drain. At the coast road, squinting across the prom, I can see the white tops of the waves.

It’s low tide but the wind is lifting a relentless white wash inland. The sea is dark green and opaque. The sky is pale blue between dark grey clouds. The shingle is grey and dark towards the water, the sun was not warm enough to dry the stones before the tide turned.

Gulls have gathered in their usual spot but they are scattered today. Not all facing into the wind, some standing, some tucked up, but as a group, undecided on the best way to be in these conditions, unsettled.

There’s almost nobody here. A council worker in a neon orange jacket picks up litter on the next stretch. A young woman throws stones for a trotting greyhound along the watery edge. The dog remains unbothered and slopes over the shingle, perhaps in the direction of a soft blanket.

The wind is cold and bitter despite the season. Last weeks heatwave is already distant.

I didn’t visit the beach during the hottest days. The sea might seem like the perfect place to be during the hot weather, people from other places remark how lucky I am to be close. They don’t fathom the intense sun on the hot stones, the concrete heat of the shadeless roads between me and the water and the slog of the hill back up to an overheated flat.

This morning I don’t take off my trainers or pull out my towel. Like the gulls, I can’t settle. The water might be summer warm but the energy is feisty and I am in no mood to fight.

July is often a rough month for me. Low mood begins to fall in, a heavy swing that runs by an invisible clock. By the end of the month I am usually hanging on by a sticky thread, every move a ridiculous effort, breath slow, thoughts slower, tears dark and silent. There will have to be acceptance, patience, and surrender. Until then, wit a sense of time running out, I walk, read and notice the colour of the sky while I can.

Early morning swims will come again and I will keep coming down to the edge.