I’ve been at it again. The freaking out … the jumping in the car … and the driving, pell-mell, through the bloody dark. And, just like the last time, I’d be hard pressed to put my finger on what actually triggered it. It may just be accumulated angst or grief or anger. All of which I have in abundance. Most days I’m like a pan rattling away on the cooker, somewhere between simmering and boiling. Then, every once in a while, suddenly it’s – KAPOW. And I’m up and out and at ’em. And driving like a maniac through the night.
I’d had a relatively booze-free evening. I’ve been so dreadfully tired and I was just desperate for a good night’s sleep. But when I finally managed to coax myself up to bed and turned the light out I just lay there, staring at the ceiling. And, within an hour or so, was wishing I’d had a decent dose of alcohol, just to knock me out.
I was feeling particularly sorry for myself. In fact, I was feeling sorry for pretty much the whole of humanity. I don’t recall the details, but I do remember becoming increasingly sick and frightened. Had somehow managed to tie myself in knots. Then I started to panic. And felt that if I didn’t do something drastic pretty quickly, that I would go mad and stay mad for all eternity.
Quite suddenly, I couldn’t lie there any longer. I jumped out of bed, pulled on some clothes and went clattering down the tiny stairwell. Grabbed my keys and coat. So that in the space of about two minutes I’d gone from lying in bed to striding through the village towards the car.
I headed west along the coast road, with no clear destination in mind. And it was only as I entered Holkham village that I thought of the beach, and it occurred to me that I might actually find myself out there on it. Then I was pulling up beside the gate to the car park. Was climbing over the gate and heading towards the trees.
It felt quite strange, walking along that wide avenue where all the cars are usually parked and for it to be so empty. It seems as if that was the first time I became fully aware of being out in the middle of the night.
I walked right to the end, and instead of creeping round to the left and through the trees, I carried straight on, up the path over the dunes. I could feel my shoes sink into the sand and how heavy it made each step.
At the top of the dunes there was enough light for me to see the beach spread out below me. That infinite beach. I stopped, but for no more than a couple of seconds. Then I carried on down the other side. And, without ever making a conscious decision, I set out across the sands, towards the sea.
It wasn’t as if, now that I was walking, I was suddenly relaxed or relieved or deliriously happy. I wasn’t. It was just that I was walking, and had a little mission. And that seemed to have taken precedence over whatever was going on in my head.
The sand was firm now, and I could hear the sea way off in the distance, booming and roaring. A quite incredible sound. Halfway there, I remember stopping and taking my shoes and socks off, so that I could actually feel the sand, cold and damp beneath my feet. And, another ten or fifteen minutes later, I could feel how the sand had formed into ripples. Could feel the balls of my feet catch them as I walked. And the booming of the waves was an almighty noise now, and you could smell the salt and dampness in the air.
Then suddenly I was at the water’s very edge and cold, cold water was under my feet and rushing round my ankles. Thirty or forty yards out the waves came crashing down and the foam came in, spreading over the flattened water. Came sweeping in all around me.
I still don’t know what I was after. I was all tangled up inside myself. In fact, I think I started to pick over the things I’d been worrying about back at the cottage. Started to rake over the embers of my anxieties. And was doing a pretty good job of breathing some life back into them – when something happened. As I stood there, watching those huge waves rolling and crashing, at the very end of my tether. Just when I felt that I’d had quite, quite enough. It was as if … as if an undeniable truth briefly revealed itself to me. Which sounds preposterous, I know. But I can’t think of another way of putting it. It was as if I had the briefest glimpse of some universal force at work. Of incredible power and infinite grace, which obliterated any thought or worry I might ever have. I might almost say that, in that instant, I finally found myself obliterated – or removed. Which was not the least bit terrifying. And for that briefest, briefest moment I sensed that there might be some grand concordance. That, in fact, contrary to everything I’ve come to believe in, that the world might be good and kind. And that there might be a place for me in it.
This morning, in the cold light of day, I could rationalise the whole strange experience by saying that, standing before the waves and beneath the stars, I’d simply been overwhelmed or reassured by the force of nature. Or that when one is panicking there comes a point when one’s mind and body have simply had enough, and the panic suddenly runs out of steam. Some chemical is released into the bloodstream. So that, after all the chaos and the crashing, there’s a sudden release and a spreading smoothness, like the foam on the flat, flat water. And that it’s nothing but physiology.
But that’s not it. That momentary thought, or revelation, was as real and tangible as anything I’ve ever encountered. It really was. It was over in a fraction of a second. There were no tears. No angelic chorus. I was the same person I was before. It was just that I’d had this glimpse of something. Then I was back there, with my feet in the water, clutching my shoes, and wondering what on earth had just gone on.