Prologue

Mid-January, and it seems as if the exceptional frost, the ice and snow usually so foreign to Cornwall, has gone for good. Today is a perfect winter’s day, cold but still, so still that even here at the edge of the sea there isn’t a breath of wind. The water is like a smooth carpet, the grey and black of the last weeks transformed to a deep blue-green.

It is late morning, and I’m still working, walking from the tiny post office in the seaside town of Morranport to deliver my last batch of post. My Royal Mail winter uniform seems heavy in this gift of a day, as I watch the oystercatchers scurrying along the shoreline. With their black feathers on top and the white plumage underneath, they remind me of commuters in London, hurrying to work with hasty, stressful steps. Their shadows, running along beside them, add to this image and I laugh out loud, once again not believing my luck that I’m no longer part of that scene. Even though I, too, am working, I’m certainly not scurrying but walking slowly, savouring the sea air, pausing to look at an interesting rock formation, or a flock of seabirds.

This is my third year in Cornwall, and I can’t imagine ever living anywhere else. I knew from the day we arrived that this was home now, and every day, every month, and every year, this feeling intensifies.

It’s so warm I open the jacket of my uniform. This beautiful day, this sudden winter’s prize, gives me a surge of energy and I jump over the low wall to walk along the pebbles and damp sand. The oystercatchers are ahead of me now, their skinny red legs flashing as they paddle in and out of the sea. I should be tired; I was up at four as usual to get ready for my round and it’s been an especially long morning, not over yet, either. My customers, who have been locked inside their houses during the last icy winter weeks, have come out with the sun, delighted, like me, with the spring-like day. Of course, they all want to talk, even more so than usual, which is fine with me. I’ve grown fond of many of them, and some have even become good friends. Mostly I just listen, my head bobbing up and down, nodding as they talk, just like the oystercatchers pecking on the wet shore.

Above me, the herring gulls are shrieking as they fly over the sea and sand. The sound is wonderfully familiar, somehow rooting me to this amazing coastal area I now call home. I take deep breaths, enjoying the relative warmth of the air after the bitter cold of the past weeks. I feel so full of energy that I start doing some Jumping Jacks right there and then, feeling my winter muscles stretch, my lungs fill with clean sea air.

Suddenly I stop. Ahead of me, a cormorant dives into the sea with such grace it nearly takes my breath away. There is hardly a ripple in the water. I stare, wondering where and when it will come up. Finally, after what seems ages, it surfaces, far from where it dived. The bird stays floating serenely on the water for some time, while I stand serenely watching. London, my old life there as a high-flying career woman, seems a million years away.

Then I turn, hop over the wall onto the footpath, and get on with my round. As I walk, the sun glitters on the sea with such promise that I know the New Year is going to be fantastic. My first two in Cornwall have been magical, so why not the third?

I take a few deep breaths, hoist my bag over my shoulder, and set off to finish delivering the day’s post.