in Suffolk, England stays with me yet. It was an overcast, chilly afternoon. We had just stepped off the train, having travelled past lush countryside dotted with ancient towns and rolling farms on a summertime trip launched from the UK. The dog and his boy were with us on that train when it pulled into Felixstowe, where we had gamely booked a room in an old-fashioned hotel facing the English Channel. As the nearest venue available to our port of departure, it was a blind choice.
The boy (of about nineteen or twenty) was prevailed upon for directions--after our making much of the fact that dogs are allowed to travel on public transportation, of course. He obliged us by walking us down the main drag of this, his hometown, pointing towards the horizon and a presumable collision point with the sea. As our destination was Sea Road, we thought this was exactly right. Could we get there on foot? He assured us it was an easy walk, although he did not know of the hotel.
So, dragging our luggage in fits and starts down cobbled stones, gravity aided us in making quick progress. However, the streets were coming to life with vendors and shopkeepers of all
types. It was friday, and a spirit of festivity pervaded the marketplace. The day was gloomy and misting a bit as we travelled past the friendly folk; no one seemed to mind. The boy, coming upon a sister and her babies, bid us goodbye in his shy manner, the dog rejoicing with his master in joining his pack.
We marveled at the beauty of old bricks and quaint stores as we proceeded seaward. As we approached the channel, the wind and chill grew--invigoratingly. The streets sloped ever more precariously, and the luggage picked up speed. Our destination seemed to be in a sparsely inhabited area, as we saw fewer persons and more dilapidated, forsaken real estate here. When we came upon the waterside at last, as sign told us Sea Road began at this point to run parallel to it, and we careened to the right, hoods up and shoulders set against the winds.
Another long hike brought us to our final destination, The Marlboro Hotel. We were glad to get indoors and find our tidy, unadorned room with window thrown open to the breeze. No air conditioning here, (the advertisement promised it would be heated)! We were tired but cozy.
As soon as the weather turned again, as it always does in this part of the world, we set out to look for a dining spot and explore this serendipitous port of call. We had no sooner stepped from the hotel's door, when our young lad was spotted strolling along the sea wall, dog at heels,
directly across the street. I thought to call out to him something about the "easy walk" being none so easy, in a joking manner--but stopped short. There was something about him. His lean frame loping so free of care, head held high, seeing some distant dream in the salty sea mist...
It seemed wrong to toss a crass, extroverted American greeting into the reverie I could all but read in his demeanor.
And this is what touched me more than all the beautiful museums and parks I subsequently viewed on my journey. When youth turns homeward at last and says "This place I come from is not so bad. " For a few moments in time he had seen his little village through our amazed eyes and found it lovely. He always knew it was so, but was pulled to what the world called beauty.
His home was becoming Home to him. And that is a sacred moment.
