The World Is Too Old For Us To Talk About It With Our New Words

Deep blue skies that even Dali would marvel at. Azure ocean water breaking against rocks as old as time itself. The surf roaring in like a proud lion before shushing itself back out again so the next roar somehow sounds even louder. This is the eternal story of the Pacific coast between San Francisco and Forever.

I’ve seen seas, I’ve seen channels, I’ve glimpsed the Mediterranean before realising that Marseille stank in too unsavoury a manner for me to want to stick around that long. I’ve watched almost frozen, grey December waves attack the shoreline where the Atlantic meets Ireland. But I’ve never in my life seen an ocean as magnificent or inspirational as the Pacific down here in California. It’s almost enough to make me want to devolve, grow gills and dive back into my primordial home.

Lyrical waxery? I guess so but unless you’ve stood in one of the countless coves around Monterey or Carmel or the further south locations I’m yet to encounter then waxy lyrics are all I can offer you in terms of trying to convey the sheer spiritual enrichment that comes from such natural beauty.

Are they having winter back home in England? Do I really have to go home next week?

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