Would you build a water-powered funicular to travel up and down an ungainly cliff? Day after day, would you drag all of your belongings up and down steep and slick cobblestones in crude sledges? Would you wake up every morning and sip a warm drink while watching the waves crash?
Nearly half of humankind lives within one hundred kilometers of the ocean. This is remarkable since I’m pretty sure there is lots of fabulous real estate just a bit further inland. The statistic doesn’t even count all of the people who live near rivers, brooks, waterfalls, streams, or koi ponds. We all seem to be incalculably drawn to the water; it mesmerizes and charms us.
I once read an utterly unsubstantiated theory that early human brain development was spurred on by the meditative effect of staring at fire. I would like to make an equally unsubstantiated—perhaps, even more unsubstantiated, if I may be so bold—claim that our brain developed through the process of staring at the sea.
I also realize that the sea has many practical advantages, blah, blah, blah. Before we invented teleporters, we used to travel by water a lot. And fish are yummy. Fishing dates to prehistoric times and—before the invention of grocery stores—was the best way to acquire fish. Still today, tens of millions of people are engaged in commercial and recreational fishing.
(Though I’ve never understood the recreational fishing bit. It seems a terribly dull way of coming by fish to eat. And when you get your hands on it, its all slimy and stuff. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not implying I only like cooked fish, I also appreciate raw fish… in the form of sushi.)
Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that many people live by the ocean because they like it. Okay?
Living by the Sea
We’ve spent a chunk of our lives in Los Angeles—at our age, our lives can be divided into quite a few different chunks; thank you very much. The LA beaches are flat and wide and drone on mile after mile. It’s so pleasant so as to be boring. Each area takes on a character, but only by virtue of the people who choose to live there and what monstrosities they decide to build or commit.
But that charming peninsula in the lower lefthand corner of Britain is so charmingly different. Cornwall, Devon, and Somerset require you to enjoy the ocean on their terms. They are like coy lovers who want to make sure you are truly invested before they surrender their charms. The land considers itself aloof of the sea and refuses to stoop to the ocean’s level. That is to say, that most of the peninsula is surrounded by cliffs—glorious, amazing, awe-inspiring cliffs. Only in nips here and there do the land and sea meet to consummate their love, and where they do, there seem to be alternately charming fishing villages and secluded beaches.
Packhorse 2.0
This brings us around to our initial question: What wouldn’t you give to live by the sea?
Lynmouth is in the county of Devon, on the north coast of our subject peninsula. One of those charming fishing villages nestled at the—wait for it—mouth of the Lyn River. Get it? Lyn-mouth. English is so fun. Anyway, Lynmouth is this tiny little gem nestled against the seaside cliff. Therein lies the problem. For about a billion years, anything that you might want to transport from Lynmouth to the real world—including yourself—needed to surmount a 500-foot cliff on foot or packhorse.
That was until 1890 when the funicular was completed. Picture it, two train cars (one going up and one going down) powered only by water diverted from a nearby stream—that was planning to go down the cliff anyway! Now all you have to do is wait in a sometimes interminably long line, pay a semi-reasonable fee and experience your view transitioning from “beautiful beach” to “stunning cliff” in a matter of minutes.
Would you do that to live by the sea?
I would do anything… but I won’t do that.
But what if you already have a perfect system for traveling up and down a near-vertical cliff? What if a funicular holds no charm for you—except, of course, the indisputable joy of having such a silly word pass your lips? What then?
What perfect method of traveling from the seaside to the cliffside am I referring to? Am I alluding to an elevator? Am I hinting at a comfortable roadway with tortuous switchbacks? A large trampoline? No, none those. Allow me to paint the picture of nearby Clovelly.
As you stand at Clovelly’s quayside, you look longingly across the Bristol Channel to the south coast of Wales. The look is longing not because of a particular urge to visit Wales—though you should—but only because it might be easier to swim across those open waters than to make your way back up the hill to where you left your car.
You see, Clovelly is the prettiest place in the world. It is a seaside town owned entirely by one family (which isn’t creepy at all) where suckers like you and me can pay a modest fee to frolic down the streets and see how people in such a charming little place live—past cottages dripping with flower baskets and contented cats. By ‘down’ the roads, I mean simply that. The streets are nigh on vertical, and down is the easy part. The carpark is at approximately eighty-two thousand feet of elevation, and the quay is at ten feet. Like the signs of the Grand Canyon say, down is optional, up is mandatory.
But strolling down, sipping a cappuccino, and trudging back up is nothing—that is wimpy tourist stuff. The locals go up and down every day, PULLING SLEDGES. That’s right. There are no cars, no funiculars, no elevators, and no trampolines. If you want something moved from the top to the bottom, or the bottom to the top, you load it on a hand-made sledge, and you start pulling.
Would you do that to live by the sea?
A Cuppa by the Sea
What about drinking a warm beverage by the sea? Would you do that? Would you be willing to suffer so? To carry that burden? It might not sound like much, but it could be fatiguing. To get up each morning and know that there is a vast and entreating vista just waiting for you. Knowing that you owe it to yourself, but more importantly, that such a view as the crashing waves demands that you pay it homage by tucking in each morning with a cuppa and staring into the lovely abyss.
Well, I can’t speak for you. Heck, most days, I don’t feel qualified to speak for myself. But I think that you would be willing to do that. I believe that you could put a kettle on or order a latte and watch those waves roll in one after another. And I hope that sometimes you do.
Summary
Deciding where to live is one of the most pivotal decisions that we ever endeavor to examine. And yet for most of our lives, most of us never bother to decide it at all. We stay where we are—in sight of the sea or not. But in your perfect home, maybe the seashore is just beyond your door, calling to you. Be it at the bottom of a cliff or a cobblestone slope, perhaps that home is waiting for you to take notice.
Questions
Please comment below:
- What do you love about living by the sea?
- What would you do to live by the sea?
- Whilst sitting by the sea, do you prefer coffee or tea?
