It’s said “You can’t go home again,” so it had to be a dream, but she had her tickets in her hand. Afraid they would be lost, she clutched them tightly as she hurried to the plane she worried that she’d  miss. It was a lengthy flight, and slightly tipsy from the tiny drinks, she’d slept, then touching down on England’s rolling verdant plane, she stood alone. She had no time to see the sights so well remembered,  The pigeon-filled Trafalgar square, St. Paul’s, the huge cathedral, Hyde Park so green amongst the concrete world, and cozy little tea rooms nestled snugly in the squares.   From the bustling airport, she took a taxi to the station. Breathless almost running…what platform should she be on? She knew no one to help her. Old friends, like she, had all flown off to other lands, or had passed away.

      At last she found the right train, and chose a seat next to the window. The rails soon hummed their droning song, as the engine pulled them northward through the country to the sea. Tiny gleaming stations, whisking by, rippling fields of wheat, and row on row of lavender, a brilliant purple hue. She thought she would never get there, as she nodded with the soothing rhythm. So many things could still go wrong.

     For years, she’d scrimped and saved, and done without, with hope she’d walk again those sandy shores beside the grey-green sea; to view once more the red and white chalky cliffs they’d climbed while youth had still allowed. Stomachs churning, temples pulsing madly, they would carefully pick their way from rock to rock, until they’d reached the top, then roll with laughter in lush green meadows, laughing wildly in the summer sun.

     She found an almost empty cliff-front Bed and Breakfast.  She listened to the sound of waves upon the seashore, she toyed with sleep, but tossed and turned in early dawn, until she smelled the bacon. Toast sat primly, crisp and chill in silver holders, like envelopes of mail; marmalade from tiny jars, and a pot of steaming tea. She’d had her fill and couldn’t wait to hike once more the mile across the cliffs from the new town to the old.  She smelled the salt-filled wind blown in from chilly seas, which in other times had almost bowled them over as they’d leaned into their bluster. She lingered once again in the tiny sunken garden, among a scented harmony of old rock walls caressed by multicolored blossoms, where monks of long ago had knelt and prayed. Here one could sit in shelter, steal breath back from the wind, and soak up the summer sun. A sacred place, even for those who don’t believe.

     Ahead, the blinding whitewash of the lighthouse flashed. An ancient warning beacon, the savior of those swarthy souls who spent their lives at sea.  She hurried on, heading inland, down narrow lanes hedged with Hawthorne, thick and sharply fragrant, but not near as tall as she remembered. Blackbirds sung, sparrows flew about and spread their gossip in the early morn. Sheep ignored her as she passed through fields and meadows, walking faster as she reached the village pond.