It’s 8:20 a.m., and I’m woken by the shattering sound of someone repeatedly slamming a small dumpster back and forth until it empties its contents into another. The construction work next to my apartment shows no sign of ending and, now that I work remotely, raucous noises have become the unwanted soundtrack to my day.
Today, though, I’m off to the sea. I come here when I’m feeling drained or burned out, which I have been lately. I crave the fresh air and salty breeze, the smell of the water as it bubbles up on the shore, the food—even those damn seagulls. When I arrive in Whitstable, a small town on the southeast coast of England, I immediately head to the shore. As I look out at the lingering haze on the horizon, I take a deep breath in and the maritime air fills my lungs.
Later, after spending the afternoon out in the autumn sun, I’m ready for a beer. I can see the pub ahead, standing tall against the backdrop of the sea and the evening sky. With a pint of Harvey’s Sussex Best Bitter in hand, I take a seat just a stone’s throw from the water. Before I know it, I’ve drunk my beer and I’m back on my feet and headed to the bar for another.
The sun disappears early, and the wind is picking up, so I eventually retreat to my apartment rental. I feel my eyes grow heavy, and I have no intention of fighting the urge to sleep. But, in what feels like no time at all, it is morning and I am woken to familiar despair: Workers are shouting over each other as they cut through wood and hammer against the wall behind me. The apartment beside mine is being renovated. Even in escape, it’s hard to ever get away.
Words + Photoby Sean McEmerson