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Ok, just posted this elsewhere, let's try it on you 
Cuss word edited
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1974, I was walking from our rented caravan, on my own, along country lanes to the local pub. I thought to myself that this place, north Cornwall, is beautiful and I felt kinda privileged.
But I’m not a country boy, I’m a city boy born and bred and as I walked it occurred to me that maybe I felt lonely. I walked along these leafy lanes, it was very very quiet apart from the birds singing. Looked to my left, sun going down over some fields, looked to my right, a big expanse of ocean, the English Channel. Beautiful.
Yet still a sense of isolation.
No noise, no exhaust fumes, no constant murmur of conversation, no occasional dialogue to confrontation, no emergency services vehicles sirens. This was not home.
I got to the pub, ordered a pint, sat there, smoked a cigarette, smiled at the locals, they smiled back but their eyes showed it wasn’t genuine. I figured they must have gone back generation after generation and despite it being November, which meant I wasn’t a tourist, I still felt an outcast.
I was the only one who went out that evening, the three mates of mine I shared the caravan with decided to stay in for the evening.
The idea was to somehow get through the winter then spend another summer, from late February onwards anyway, surfing, beach parties, pussy, all the good things.
But as I sat there, although I was at ease, accepted, I just knew it wasn’t home.
Ten days later, my van was scrapped, farmer used it as hay storage, so I was told, spent all I had on another van, drove back to London, actually stole money to buy the gas. Yes, I know, bad, but I had nothing and I was desperate.
We got there, me and me mate Terry, he back to parents and me my sister put up for a while before I got a job driving a delivery truck and rented a studio flat. Studio flat = 1 room apartment, bedist, whatever.
December, rain, cold, but I was home. This is my city, this is my home, this is my place.
Never went back to Cornwall permanently, sad to say, stayed here, married twice, kinda messed up but hey, it’s been kinda good, known a lotta good times, seen a lotta good things, met a lotta good people. Thinking about them brings a smile.
Wonder what would have happened had I stayed in Cornwall?
And I’ll never ever forget Helen, the most perfect figure in this universe, sex on a stick, lol
Oh well, rambling over, you ever get to thinking about things?
If so, share
Cuss word edited
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
1974, I was walking from our rented caravan, on my own, along country lanes to the local pub. I thought to myself that this place, north Cornwall, is beautiful and I felt kinda privileged.
But I’m not a country boy, I’m a city boy born and bred and as I walked it occurred to me that maybe I felt lonely. I walked along these leafy lanes, it was very very quiet apart from the birds singing. Looked to my left, sun going down over some fields, looked to my right, a big expanse of ocean, the English Channel. Beautiful.
Yet still a sense of isolation.
No noise, no exhaust fumes, no constant murmur of conversation, no occasional dialogue to confrontation, no emergency services vehicles sirens. This was not home.
I got to the pub, ordered a pint, sat there, smoked a cigarette, smiled at the locals, they smiled back but their eyes showed it wasn’t genuine. I figured they must have gone back generation after generation and despite it being November, which meant I wasn’t a tourist, I still felt an outcast.
I was the only one who went out that evening, the three mates of mine I shared the caravan with decided to stay in for the evening.
The idea was to somehow get through the winter then spend another summer, from late February onwards anyway, surfing, beach parties, pussy, all the good things.
But as I sat there, although I was at ease, accepted, I just knew it wasn’t home.
Ten days later, my van was scrapped, farmer used it as hay storage, so I was told, spent all I had on another van, drove back to London, actually stole money to buy the gas. Yes, I know, bad, but I had nothing and I was desperate.
We got there, me and me mate Terry, he back to parents and me my sister put up for a while before I got a job driving a delivery truck and rented a studio flat. Studio flat = 1 room apartment, bedist, whatever.
December, rain, cold, but I was home. This is my city, this is my home, this is my place.
Never went back to Cornwall permanently, sad to say, stayed here, married twice, kinda messed up but hey, it’s been kinda good, known a lotta good times, seen a lotta good things, met a lotta good people. Thinking about them brings a smile.
Wonder what would have happened had I stayed in Cornwall?
And I’ll never ever forget Helen, the most perfect figure in this universe, sex on a stick, lol
Oh well, rambling over, you ever get to thinking about things?
If so, share
) because for the most part I came to terms with that a long time ago. Everyone lives their lives within limitations & everyone's limitations are different. In the end it's up to us to find those limitations, stretch them to screaming, & live the best life we can 
