It's oh so quiet. Shh.

Shh.

It's oh… so still…

…

The mud-coloured sea rolls ever inward.

Above the treeline the gulls swoop and wheel, dancing on the wind.

In the mist beyond the tree, a P&O Ferry appears, moving inexorably toward harbour.

It's cold here. The chill's cold fingers sneak between and beneath the layers intended to keep them at bay. I contemplate yet another trip up the stairs for yet another woolly item.

Instead, my eyes dart around, alighting on details like a hummingbird on an exotic flower.

Pause for a second.

Drink their nectar, then gone. On to the next thing.

The bright white of the kinked cable against the wood of the floor.

The rain-soaked picnic table and the tree reflected in its wetness.

The fake hydrangeas in their Delft-blue pots on the windowsill.

A discarded book, open on the rug.

The neon green and purple of my slippers, almost offensive against a landscape of muted neutrals.

The devil is in the details, they say.

There's something about being near water that makes me want to wax lyrical.

Travel too, especialy by train. There's a feeling of being apart from the world. In a kind of limbo - neither here nor there - that offers a freedom from the daily rhythmn of life. For a time, I march to a different beat.

The sound of the sea washes over me, and I am calm.

The words flow through my fingers and onto the page. I need them to. I want them to. They've been stuck in my head too long. Trapped there by a lack of time and space.

Life is busy. Sometimes too busy. Hours roll into days. Days roll into weeks. Weeks give way to weekends. A social life has appeared - fully-fledged - from nowhere obvious and is packed with occasions and/or obligations.

For the most part, I don't mind. It's nice to have things to do. People to see. To feel like a weekend has been had. But time alone is in short supply and I need it to recharge my batteries.

Not that I'm alone here. But with this company, this band of literary brothers and sisters, comes with the space to be in my alone in my head.

I came to write, and I do.