What does it mean to stay, instead of to escape? Can they mean the same thing? It’s easy to get stuck in the bubble of routine: eat, work, sleep, repeat. I live in a town in west Cornwall, where everything you need is within walking distance. The sea. Food. Friends. Coffee. Wine. I consider myself lucky. I often forget where I’ve parked my car – unusual for Cornwall – and mostly this is a good thing. But after a few weeks of this sameness, I was starting to feel creatively dead. I needed a self-imposed retreat – to treat my home like a holiday.
I see this as a way of converting routine into ritual. This past weekend, with the school holidays in full swing and holiday-makers descending upon the beaches, I decided to follow suit. This looked like getting all the errands out of the way in the same amount of time it might take for someone to drive from their home to holiday: four hours or so to cook, shop, do the washing and write. Then freedom. I lay on my favourite beaches, knowing full well there would be zero signal. I didn’t invite anyone to join me; instead I listened to Hot Milk by Deborah Levy, intermittently dipped under crashing waves and watched the surfers dancing on the water. I ate a perfect salame sandwich and ate two peaches, letting the juices drip down my chin.
I met a friend for a sauna, watched kids build sandcastles and parents get burnt and everyone eat ice creams and find relief in the sea. We walked over to a restaurant that overlooked the water, drank two salty Italian beers and it felt like we had truly escaped, if just for a few hours.
My favourite part was returning home – home! – with salty, sun-soaked skin, and performing a solo aperitivo ritual: icy spritz, saucisson sec and various cheeses on a chopping board, a fresh tomato and peach salad spiked with sherry vinegar and peppery Greek olive oil. At the end of the day, staycation is just a state of mind…
