Episode 25: The Place He Proposed

Episode 25 is here ❤️

This week I went back to the place where Alex proposed 7 years ago to the day. 

What started as a surfing pilgrimage, ended up becoming one of the most emotional trips I've taken since losing Alex.

I talk about revisiting the place where our future began, the kindness of complete strangers, and an 82 year old surfer that reminded me life doesn't stop, and the 86,400 seconds we are given each day.

Pop the kettle on, grab your coffee and join me in the Early Mourning Coffee Club ☕️🖤

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:04

Hello and welcome back to the Early Morning Coffee Club, the podcast where grief is intense, humour is finely ground, and strength sneaks up on you like a double shot. Firstly, I'm really sorry that this episode is a little later than usual. I'm broken. And not emotionally, I mean physically, because I went surfing in Cornwall at the weekend, and apparently my back has decided that at the age of 32, surfing's now a contact sport. At 22, I'd have bounced out of that sea, I'd gone for some fish and chips, slept on the floor of a camper van, and been absolutely fine. Now, I sneezed yesterday and I thought I saw my own life flash before my eyes. Everything this week has taken approximately three to five business days because I've been moving like someone's nan. But honestly, it was worth every ache. Because this wasn't just a surfing trip. This was a pilgrimage. I wanted to go back to the place where Alex proposed. Almost exactly seven years ago. I just qualified as a dental hygienist after finding out I'd passed my university exams, and to celebrate, we bundled ourselves into our beloved old VW campervan, who we called Fiona, and we headed down to Cornwall. Alex later admitted he'd been carrying the engagement ring around in his pocket for days, waiting for exactly the right moment. Imagine the stress surfing, changing into wetsuits, climbing over rocks, sleeping in a campervan. The ring was probably more travelled than most people. Anyway, a few days into the trip, we decided to swap the surfboards for walking boots, and decided to walk the southwest coastal path from Peremporth towards St. Agnes. I remember thinking that life couldn't possibly get better. I'd just passed my exams, the sun was shining, the sea was sparkling below us, everything just felt right, and I remember turning to Alex and saying, Aren't we just so lucky to have found a love like this? And he told me afterwards that he knew then that that was the moment he was going to propose. He found a little cove just off the path and suggested we set up the camera on a tripod to take some photos. And then that's when he got down on one knee. Now in films, people gasp elegantly, they place a delicate hand over their mouth, and maybe whisper, Oh my goodness. Not me. My exact response was shut up. What the hell? Alex, Alex, what the hell? What the hell? Is this real? Just repeatedly yelling, what the hell while crying. Poor bloke. He was kneeling there with his entire future balanced on one sentence and eventually just laughed nervously and said, Meg, you've got to say something. Somewhere between hyperventilating and ugly crying, I managed to say yes. And the rest of that day felt like a dream. We wandered back to Perinport and were greeted by the most incredible sunset I've ever seen. It genuinely felt like the universe was celebrating with us that day. I'd always said we'd come back after we got married. But life happened, and somehow we never made it back together. So, this weekend just gone, I decided to go alone. I arrived at the campsite that we'd stayed at all their summers ago, and I started setting up the trusty old tent box. And this lovely older couple who were camped next door introduced themselves. But then came the interrogation. Are you here by yourself? Yep. Really? Yep. No one else joining you? Now, I know they meant well, but inside my head I was thinking, could you possibly rub more salt into the wound? Anyway, I escaped to the beach with a pizza and naturally a beer, because every emotional crisis deserves carbohydrates and alcohol. I sat looking through old photographs, and suddenly all that excitement I'd felt about coming back here just disappeared. And instead I just felt lonely, angry, guilty, like I didn't belong in this future that we planned together. So I admitted defeat and I went to bed ridiculously early. Which turned out to be an excellent life decision because let me tell you, tent box mattresses deserved their own Nobel Prize. And nine and a half hours later, I can't believe I'm saying this, I woke up feeling like an entirely different person. Can't remember the last time I slept for that long. So, with a new lease of life, I pulled on my bikini, ran down to the sea, and threw myself into the water. The sea, as always, has absolutely no interest in your emotional state. It's just cold, like violently cold. It slaps you in the face a few times and basically says, pull yourself together, woman, and I love it. When I came out, I wrapped myself in a towel, and I spotted this elderly man carrying a surfboard into the waves, and we started chatting. He said he was 82. He said he surfed most days still, and he asked what had brought me to Cornwall. And before I knew it, I told him everything about Alex, about losing him, about coming back to find the place that he proposed. And this old chap simply listened. He didn't interrupt me, he didn't try to fix anything, just listened. And sometimes strangers carry things for us like that that some people closest to us can't. He wished me well and paddled into the sea, and somehow I immediately felt lighter. I grabbed a flat white, because obviously, and I sat on the beach reading. The book I'm reading mentions something that was written by a French writer called Marc Levy. He asked us to imagine a bank account that receives £86,400 every single morning. Whatever you don't spend by midnight disappears forever. You'd spend every penny of that, wouldn't you? But that's exactly what time gives us. Every day we're handed £86,400, and whatever we don't use is gone forever. I sat there, drinking my flat white, thinking Alex would definitely approve of how I'm going to spend today's 86,400 seconds. Not hiding, not surviving, but living. And then I finally started walking, and every step towards St. Agnes felt heavier and lighter all at once. I passed an elderly couple holding hands, and for just a second I saw us the version of us that was stolen too soon. Grey haired, still walking this path, still arguing over whose turn it was to make the cups of tea, still hopelessly in love. Because grief does that. It lets you mourn futures as well as memories. A little further on I caught up with a lady carrying this enormous backpack. She turned round and smiled and said, You go ahead, you're faster than me. Truthfully, with my bad back. The bar wasn't exactly high, and so I asked if she'd like some company for a bit. And she said yes. Although looking back, I think I needed her far more than she needed me in that moment. She introduced herself, she said her name was Michelle, and she was walking from Peremporth all the way to Penzance, in sections, in an incredible challenge spread over a number of years. She then asked what had brought me there today. And as seems to happen these days, I accidentally unloaded my entire autobiography onto a complete stranger. She kindly listened to and then she said something I'll never forget. I know your husband would be so proud of what you're doing. I confess to her that I was actually a little frightened. Not of the walk itself, although it is a long walk, but that after seven years I wouldn't remember the spot where he proposed. What if I couldn't find it? What if Grief has stolen that too? But Michelle just smiled and said, you'll know. And as we rounded one final bend, I stopped. There, that's the spot. I hadn't forgotten it all. Michelle quietly slipped off her backpack. She rummaged around inside until she found a little packet of tissues, and she handed them to me and said, I think you'll need these. Then she said, You go and do your thing, and I'm gonna spend the rest of today's walk thinking about you, Alex and Oscar. We hugged, we both cried. I apologize because I'm British, and she looked at me and said, No, don't apologize for crying, this is important. And then she carried on walking. And I walked down to the little cove where seven years earlier two impossibly happy twenty somethings thought they were beginning the rest of their lives together. I sat exactly where Alex had knelt, I closed my eyes, and for a moment it felt like time unfolded. I could almost hear him laughing. I could almost hear the waves from that day, and almost hear myself shouting, what the hell, what the hell over and over again. I cried, I smiled, I thanked him. And eventually I stood back up because that's what grief asks of us not to stop loving, but just to keep walking. Oscar. One day when you're old enough to understand, I'll take you there. I'll show you the tiny little cove where your daddy asked me to marry him. I'll tell you how nervous he was, how he somehow managed to surprise me after nearly ten years together. How I couldn't stop saying, what the hell? You'll probably roll your eyes and tell me that I was embarrassing. And you'd be right. I'll tell you that your daddy laughed loudly, he loved fiercely, surfed like a pro, and that before he became your dad, he was my favourite person in the whole wide world. This weekend I realised something. Places don't belong to grief, they belong to love. Grief just happens to visit them too. I hope that by taking you here one day, you'll never think of it as the place Daddy died before you could remember him. I hope you'll think of it as the place where your parents began, where a family started, where your story really began too. You may never remember your daddy's voice or the way he hugged, but I promise you this, you will always know who he was because I will spend every one of my 86,400 seconds making sure you do. If today's episode reminded you of someone you love, go and spend a few of today's 86,400 seconds thinking about them. Tell their stories, say their name, visit the place, take the trip, drink the coffee, jump in the sea, because love doesn't end. It just asks us to carry it differently. Unfortunately, there won't be a podcast next week. I'm away on holiday for yet another very special trip that I can't wait to share with you once I'm back. But again, thank you for listening today. I'm sorry you're here, but I'm glad we're here together. I'll see you in a few weeks.