With determination in my heart I boarded a bus for Kings-Lynn to transfer to a Coastliner for Hunstanton. The buses were on form that day and my travel down was long but without much incident. I had endeavoured to use this trip as a form of dopamine detox, which meant I could not use my phone without necessity or listen to music; both of which I do to excess on regular days. I found myself bored almost immediately and fell into maladaptive fantasy, of which I am also want to do when the aforementioned are unavailable. I spent part of my trip concocting scenarios in my head to overcome, brutish people or terrible weather, serious injury or being lost and stranded.
I had to remind myself (frequently) that there was enough hardship to come without my needing to paint any on the blank canvas that was to be my adventure. It always amazes me, in those brief moments of lucidity from them, just how long I can sit and combat entirely fictitious challenges from nothing more than a passing thought. This may be a crisis response, or a vague attempt to be 'prepared' when such events arise, but I believe they come from a deeper-seated desire for adversity. Whether this is a healthy response or from a darker place only a trained psychoanalyst could say; of which I am resolutely not. Conversations held in no company but oneself do nothing for the mind or heart, for we as people have a knack for putting ourselves down and keeping ourselves there.
Despite my forays into imagined trial, the bus came to Hunstanton without any incident or issue. I could see the ocean almost immediately (which is a good sign, all in all) and ducked into a nearby pub to refill my travel-mug and decant my bladder. I sat outside on a bench to shuffle my packs and bags and such alongside an older, portly gentleman who had his own coffee and a stiff drink. We got to talking and he directed me to a few gift-shops nearby as well as the path to 'Old Hunstanton' which would be my last port-of-call before turning into the coast. He corrected himself on his directions frequently, stating he was new to Hunstanton himself having only lived there fifteen years. I retorted I had only been there for fifteen minutes which gave a resoundingly hearty chuckle and a clap on my neck. The gentleman waved me off as I finished my arrangement and left, his spirits (be they innate or consumed) bolstering my own.
I bought the required knick-knacks from any coastal trip from a very startled and bashful older woman running a quaint giftshop, who went on at length about a holiday home (see, caravan) that she almost bought outside of Sheringham, while also apologising for telling me the story as she rung up my purchases. I told her I would be in Sheringham soon enough and I'll see if it was still for sale, to which she laughed and spluttered for a reply. There is something about travel that changes my demeanour, I must admit. Where once I would be non-communicative and rushed I found myself slowing my pace and engaging, more open and willing to not only exchange pleasantries but also learn about people I would likely never see again. This is not a new revelation but one I ruminated on for some time on this trip. It may be the reason in itself as to why I feel more comfortable on the road; being a moment in someone's life as oppose to a fixture. Less time to establish oneself, which in turn means condensing one's personality into a few sentences and sentiments that in my normal life would be drip-fed over an age of interaction, if at all.
To be a moment in someone's life, be it as simple as a kind word in passing or as involved as a full conversing of ideas, is to present yourself upon the pedestal that you must first build while the time flies by. There is no time for doubt or back step, no need for excess or fat to what you mean or say, but only the clearest, cleanest, possible message from the heart and mind. I am glad to say that when this moment comes around in times like these mentioned, I find myself of a good sort. In usual life practises I find myself so often reliving the words that spilled from my cup and concerned with what stains they could have left on someone's mind, if any at all. In passing-ships-in-the-night encounters such as these there is no time to fret or concern, which in turns leaves no quarter for doubt or censorship. This brings about an undiluted message that has you learning about yourself as often as you learn about others; for a sharp tongue is whet on sharp ears.
I headed out to Old Hunstanton by way of the coastline, making a firm point to greet, wave, smile, or nod, to all whose eyes met mine. Every life lived is a story in its writing and it is the very least to acknowledge every writer as they craft their magnum-opus. If you are very lucky, they may even make it to mention in your own.
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