The broad curve of a shallow estuary is carved by tiny waves drawing every kind of S. Distant hills, snow-capped, shoulder in on both sides. Watercolour paper is left white above the pinks and dull blues of another county, another country. And all you want is to be walking a ten mile beach with no particular place to go, except being there.
As the train grinds through the last few miles, that feeling of being back lurches inside you, except you know you have carried this view with you since last time, since forever, know that you are never without it.
Hundreds of miles away, you look down at a city street, notice islands in the bay of worn-out road paint, plan your next trip back.