We sat on the first-floor balcony of the holiday let1 that looked down over the village from the hill on the east. I looked south, to the sea, and sometimes back east, towards home. She looked west, over the village, maybe hunting among the rooftops for the house she’d grown up in. She had tea and I had coffee. Neither of us ate. I still felt delicate2, and it was too late now for breakfast anyway. I didn’t think the coffee was that great, but I was still mossy-tongued from the night before. I squinted against the sun splashing off the water, still distant but coming in, she’d assured me. She always talked about how suddenly the tide came in here. But for the moment, the boats in the little harbour all lay awkwardly on their sides in the sand, frayed3 green ropes trailing off limply to wherever. I picked up the paper to shield my eyes. The front page of the newspaper showed a picture of Brighton4 Beach, packed shoulder to shoulder with pale, British beachgoers. “Millions Flock to Brighton to Escape Summer Heatwave,” it said. “They should just come here,” I said. The little village, the one she’d grown up in, Gorran Haven5, was busy with tourists – like myself, I suppose – but not “millions” busy. “They don’t know,” she said. “What don’t they know?” “About this. Not really. God’s own country. But people don’t understand the difference. This is a nice place. A really nice place. But they just see a beach.” I was surprised by how much she seemed to care for this village, how quickly her old accent was reasserting itself. She never talked about home much, but as soon as we’d booked this weekend she seemed to grow more impassioned about it with each passing week. “Why not?” I asked. “Because they’re incomers.” “Like me?” “Like you.” She winked. “You’re enjoying this.” “I am. I’ve had years of you teasing me about not knowing this or that about the city, not knowing the best route on the tube6. Now it’s your turn to be a little out of place. But it’s okay. You’re with me.” “You’re not exactly a local yourself any more.” “Shush. It doesn’t leave you. And I’m local enough to know where the good beach is.” [...] The path was uneven and hard, like concrete, and I struggled at first, but she was sure-footed, and soon I was hurrying to catch up. “Good to be back?” I called, hoping to slow her. It worked. We’d got in the night before and then immediately drank too much. Today was her first real day here in years. [...] 1 lejlighed 2 (her) medtaget (af tømmermænd) 3 flossede 4 kendt badeby i det sydøstlige England 5 Gorran Haven: landsby på den sydlige kyst af Cornwall, England 6 the tube: undergrundsbanen i London 1 “That’s cow parsley7,” she said. It grew tall, taller than her in some cases, and its stalks held up little umbrellas of white flowers. “Sheep go crazy for it.” “Sheep?” “Yeah, sheep. Look, they’ve grazed down the field on the other side of us.” 40 “Can I see one?” “I don’t know.” She laughed. “Can you?” “I mean, I’ve never actually seen one before, up close.” She shook her head. “City folk.” “Last week you drank a latte out of an avocado, and you’ve taken your cat to yoga.” 45 She shrugged. “Got to do something to make city life bearable.” I leaned over and reached out for a burst of the flowers of the cow parsley, to get it for her, to pin it in her hair, but she followed my gaze and slapped the back of my hand. “Don’t,” she said. “It’ll only die if you pick it. Besides, don’t lean off the path like that. Dangerous.” We continued on around the head8, with her [...] naming things occasionally − foxglove9, 50 blackberry brambles10, ivy11 − until the path split, and we took the one that angled down to a long, fat curve of pebbled beach, dramatically walled in on either side by two spits of rocky headland, and populated by only a few other couples. Good to be an insider. Fuck Brighton. “Vault Beach,” she said. The path we did not take continued up along the edge of the hill, eventually passing, I now saw, a 55 field that had sheep in it, and a part of me wished we’d gone that way. We dropped our things and kicked off our sandals way, way back on the beach. When the tide comes in, it comes in like a flash, she’d said. Our things would be washed away before we even knew we were in danger of losing them. By the time our toes touched the sand, the air was hot. I was already sweating and probably 60 starting to burn. Had to be well over twenty degrees. We walked out, but not straight out, instead tracing the headland in and over and around the rocks, to which our access was granted12 by the still- absent tide. It had come in only so much as to wet our feet and ankles. “It’s the same.” She beamed. “It’s all the same as I remember.” “What’s the sound?” I asked. I loved to see her smile like that, but there was something echoing 65 down the little cliff, a deep growl and a lighter, grinding, metallic rattle that made me nervous. She cocked her head. “Chain harrow13” I nodded. I had no idea what she was talking ab

Vi sad på balkonen på 1. sal af ferie let1, der kiggede ned over landsbyen fra bakken mod øst. Jeg kiggede sydpå, mod havet og nogle gange tilbage mod øst mod hjem. Hun kiggede mod vest, over landsbyen og måske på jagt blandt hustagene efter det hus, hun var vokset op i. Hun havde te og jeg havde kaffe. Ingen af ​​os spiste. Jeg følte stadig delikat2, og det var alligevel for sent nu til morgenmad. Jeg syntes ikke kaffen var så god, men jeg var stadig mosetunge fra natten før. Jeg skænkede mod solen, der sprøjtede af vandet, stadig fjern, men kom ind, hun ville forsikre mig om. Hun talte altid om, hvor tidevand tidligt kom ind her. Men for øjeblikket lå bådene i den lille havn alle akavet på deres sider i sandet, flossede 3 grønne reb, der slæber let hen til hvor som helst. Jeg tog papiret op for at beskytte mine øjne. Avisens forside viste et billede af Brighton4 Beach, pakket skulder til skulder med blege, britiske strandgæster. ”Millioner strømmer til Brighton for at undslippe sommervarmebølgen,” sagde det. ”De skulle bare komme her,” sagde jeg. Den lille landsby, den hun var vokset op i, Gorran Haven5, havde travlt med turister - som jeg, formoder jeg - men ikke "millioner" travlt. "De ved det ikke," sagde hun. "Hvad ved de ikke?" "Om dette. Ikke rigtig.Guds eget land. Men folk forstår ikke forskellen. Dette er en fedt sted. Et rigtig dejligt sted. Men de ser bare en strand. ” Jeg blev overrasket over, hvor meget hun syntes at passe på denne landsby, hvor hurtigt hendes gamle accent var gentager sig selv. Hun talte aldrig meget om hjemmet, men så snart vi havde booket denne weekend, syntes hun at blive mere lidenskabelig over det for hver uge der gik. "Hvorfor ikke?" Jeg spurgte. "Fordi de er indkomne." "Ligesom mig?" "Ligesom dig." Hun blinkede. "Du nyder dette." "Jeg er. Jeg har haft år med, at du driller mig om ikke at vide dette eller det om byen, ikke vide det den bedste rute på røret6. Nu er det din tur til at være lidt malplaceret. Men det er okay. Du er med mig. ” "Du er ikke ligefrem en lokal selv mere." “Shush. Det forlader dig ikke. Og jeg er lokal nok til at vide, hvor den gode strand er. ” [...] Stien var ujævn og hård som beton, og jeg kæmpede først, men hun var sikker på foden og snart skyndte jeg mig at indhente. “Godt at være tilbage?” Jeg ringede og håbede at bremse hende. Det virkede. Vi kom ind natten før og derefter drak straks for meget. I dag var hendes første rigtige dag her i år.[...] 1 lejlighed 2 (her) medtaget (af tømmermænd) 3 flossede 4 kendt badeby i det sydøstlige England 5 Gorran Haven: landsby på den sydlige kyst af Cornwall, England 6 røret: undergrundsbanen i London 1 ”Det er ko persille7,” sagde hun. Den blev i nogle tilfælde høj, højere end hende, og stilkene holdt små paraplyer med hvide blomster op. "Får bliver vanvittige for det." "Får?" ”Ja, får. Se, de har græsset ned ad marken på den anden side af os. " 40 "Kan jeg se en?" "Jeg ved ikke." Hun lo. "Kan du?" "Jeg mener, jeg har faktisk aldrig set en før, tæt på." Hun rystede på hovedet. "Byfolk." "Sidste uge drak du en latte ud af en avocado, og du har taget din kat til yoga." 45 Hun trak på skuldrene. "Måtte gøre noget for at gøre bylivet tåleligt." Jeg bøjede mig og strakte mig ud efter en burst af ko persille for at få det til hende, at klemme fast det i håret, men hun fulgte mit blik og slog min hånds bagside. ”Gør det ikke,” sagde hun. ”Det dør kun, hvis du vælger det. Desuden læn dig ikke af stien sådan.Farligt." Vi fortsatte rundt om hovedet8, hvor hun [...] navngav ting lejlighedsvis - foxglove9, 50 bjørnebærbremser10, ivy11 - indtil stien delte sig, og vi tog den, der vinklede ned til en lang, fedt kurve med stenstrand, dramatisk indhyllet på begge sider af to spidser af stenet nes og befolket af kun et par andre par . Godt at være insider. Fuck Brighton. ”Vault Beach,” sagde hun. Den sti, vi ikke tog, fortsatte op ad bakkekanten og passerede til sidst, jeg så nu, en mark på 55, der havde får i, og en del af mig ønskede, at vi ville gå den vej. Vi faldt vores ting og sparkede vores sandaler ud, langt tilbage på stranden. Når tidevandet kommer ind, kommer det ind som et blitz, sagde hun. Vores ting ville blive skyllet væk, før vi overhovedet vidste, at vi var i fare for at miste dem. Da vores tæer rørte ved sandet, var luften varm. Jeg sved allerede og sandsynligvis 60 begynder at brænde. Måtte være godt over tyve grader. Vi gik ud, men ikke lige ud i stedet sporing af forageren i og over og omkring klipperne, som vores adgang blev givet til12 af den stadig fraværende tidevand. Det var kun kommet så meget ind, at det havde vådt vores fødder og ankler. "Det er det samme." Hun strålede. "Det er det samme som jeg husker." "Hvad er lyden?" Jeg spurgte.Jeg elskede at se hende smile sådan, men der var noget, der ekko 65 ned ad den lille klint, en dyb knurren og en lysere, slibende, metallisk rasling, der gjorde mig nervøs. Hun spændte på hovedet. “Kædegrav13” Jeg nikkede. Jeg havde ingen idé om, hvad hun talte ab