Leaving The Strand Forever

As I mentioned in one of my previous blogs, it became apparent in early 2024 that we couldn't stay at my brother's place forever. He'd given us a year following my Whatsapp message plea from the Philippines. It hadn't been an easy time for anyone. I'd had my face carved up, hadn't got over all our other losses psychologically speaking, and was trying desperately to heal the Gerson way, but they had their lives to get on with and the small rent we paid them didn't remotely compensate for the imposition of a family in the heart of their home.

While they had originally given us a deadline of September 13th to leave, we luckily found alternative accommodation sooner. It was a tiny loft space behind a bungalow situated two miles away in the heart of Cromer for 100 pounds a month more than we were paying at my brothers. It had looked more likely we wouldn't be able stay on the coast and be forced to move back to my mother's house in land, but when this affordable (but small) space came up, we jumped at it.

On July 1st, we moved our lives away from the village we'd been hiding in for 365 days. It was a forever move. I knew I'd never be back here for more than a few hours (maybe returning to attend a Christmas meal or something). Many hurtful things had been said, which aren't worth writing in detail about here. I'd almost certainly had my last surf here too. During my holidays from Saudi in years gone by, I'd loved surfing and teaching my son Raf to surf the Strand, but those were very different days. 

Neither my brother or his wife were around when we moved out - probably better that way and meant I could reclaim my classic 1970's Jersey single fin (which my brother had claimed as his own whilst I was away) without an argument. It was the end of an era. My brother's place had always felt like a refuge to me. Somewhere we'd always be welcome after living life overseas. And now we'd hugely overstayed our welcome and would obviously never live here again. 

As my friend's van pulled over the hill (packed full of belongings we'd accumulated in a year), I didn't look back. I was relieved it was over. It had become so hard living somewhere we no longer felt remotely welcome.