Between Land and Sea: Finding Solace on the South West Coast Path

This National Grief Awareness week (2nd – 8th December) we share the story of Sophie Pierce, a South Devon based writer. Sophie’s memoir ‘The Green Hill: Letters to a Son’ documents Sophie’s process of writing letters to her late son, as a way of coming to terms with his tragic, unexpected loss. Sophie’s connection to the landscape on and around the South West Coast Path forged a place to make space for her grief, and to feel metaphysically connected to her son, Felix. In this guest blog, Sophie shares with us how she came to find solace in her grief on the South West Coast Path.

Family memories

I have always loved the great outdoors, and in particular, exploring the coast. I remember holidays in Cornwall as a child, walking with my parents and brothers along the north shore, and climbing down to tiny coves like Lundy Bay near Polzeath, where we swam, picnicked, and hunted for cowrie shells, lying on our tummies on the sand.

Years later, as a mother myself, I frequently took my two boys, Felix and Lucian, to walk the coast path. I can see them so clearly in my mind’s eye: running ahead along the path between Thurlestone and Hope Cove, then ‘ambushing’ us from behind a hedge; jumping in the surf at Mothecombe, and, like me, decades earlier, searching for cowrie shells on the rocky beach by the Long Stone at Bantham.

A beautiful borderland

I know the south west coast path really well, and have written several wild swimming walks guides which feature routes along it; it has always been a part of my life, a place that means a lot to me, with its wild beauty and its sense of being on the edge, a kind of borderland between the land and the sea.  So when my life fell apart in March 2017, when my son Felix died suddenly and without warning, the coast path was one of the first places I sought refuge.

Felix was living away from home, as he was a student at the University of Leicester. After missing for a few days, he was found dead in his room.  At first, his death was a mystery. But later, we learned he had died from SUDEP – Sudden Unexpected Death in Epilepsy.

Early days of bereavement

In the weeks after his death, I vividly remember one occasion where we headed for Heybrook Bay, and walked along the path towards Plymouth. I chose this stretch because I hadn’t walked it before, and I wanted to be somewhere devoid of memories of Felix. The thought of going back to somewhere we had spent happy times was just too much.

It was one of those unexpectedly hot spring days, and as my husband Alex and I walked along the path, the sun warmed our faces.  We were in a kind of awful daze, processing the terrible shock of losing our son, but I clearly remember seeing a beautiful gannet flying over the water, and admiring the shiny, sparkling sea, and feeling my heart leap with a tiny burst of joy.  Then, in the next second, I thought, how can I possibly appreciate beauty at a time like this?

As we continued to walk west along the path, I noticed a small cove below, like a natural swimming pool, bordered by an enormous slab of rock that sloped down to the water. It was so enticing, a shimmering oval of blue, I was determined to find a way down. Shortly after, we found a little path through some bramble bushes which led to it.  I swam, and the water on my body was like a soothing balm. I christened the place Felix’s Lagoon.

Seven years on from Felix’s death, I go back frequently to his lagoon, to remember him and think about him. I have made it into a place of significance; the reason I can do that is because the coast has always had meaning for me; now though, it has even greater transformative power.

Alex at Felix’s Lagoon, March 2017

Connection with the coast

Enough time has passed that I am now able to return to those places where we had so many happy times.  The coast path is somewhere I feel close to him, on several levels.  It’s not just about the memories.  It’s something to do with the essence of being on the shoreline, poised between the two worlds of the land and the sea. When you experience great loss, you feel out of place, out of time, disconnected from reality.  The coast path has a sort of magical liminality which, in a strange way, echoes and validates this feeling, but also transforms it into something uplifting and beautiful.  On another level, I feel a kind of metaphysical connection with Felix on the coast. He is buried at Sharpham Meadow on the River Dart, whose waters flood out into the sea at Dartmouth; I feel his body is becoming part of the earth, and ultimately, the water and the ocean. The coast path is where I find and connect with him again.

Header image: Felix, Sophie and Lucian (left to right) at Great Mattiscombe, Devon in 2013

Visit the Good Grief Trust’s website for more information on Grief Awareness Week.