On Appreciating Two Versions Of Yourself

Walt Whitman knew what was up: "I am large. I contain multitudes."

A morning coffee feels like a universal ritual. Something a large number of people in the world wake up to and enjoy – even crave. Most days I bring a carafe of Yallah house blend into the living room with my favourite mug and I drink a few cups on the sofa before launching into my day. This past week, I’ve been back to sipping coffee outside: on cliff edges and by bodies of water; sat on the cool grass or warm pebbles. 

Being back by the coast in the place I used to call home always makes me question where I belong. I was discussing this perpetual conflict (city vs coast) with a friend who lived here when I did, moved to London (and gently persuaded me to move back up) then came back down mid-pandemic. I was talking about the seductive pull of the coast – the slow lifestyle, the endless summers, the immediacy of cold water, the cheaper rents, the sprawling space to sit and think and read. 

“You’re romanticising it,” he told me. Of course I was. I seem to always time my visits with the blazing sun, and when I’m here, it’s just for a week and that’s enough time to bump into everyone I know, which always makes me feel very popular. I can go for three swims a day in the silky Helford River and enjoy my annual surf. “The difference between London and Cornwall is that in London, it’s a place that doesn’t really belong to anyone. And in that way it belongs to everyone. Here, you always feel like a bit of an outsider. It’s a matter of territory.” 

This is a fairly pessimistic reading of living here. But I understand what he means because I’d always felt that outsider syndrome when I had lived here. I was young, a little insecure, desperate to belong, to find community, to be part of the swirling creativity I was always peering into. And when I come back, I guess I am an outsider. I’ve lived in London for longer than I lived down here. Things have changed. People have moved on, or away. Places have shut down. New places have popped up. I’m no longer in the loop. 

I went back to a familiar spot the other day, where I used to work, having not stopped by for a while. I’d always felt like someone who wasn’t quite able to let go when I did – as if I was a senior who’d left high school years ago but wanted to relive their glory days by returning. Only to realise that they’re not as relevant as they thought they were. But I went, nonetheless, knowing that I’d grown up a little since I had worked there, proved myself, worked hard, had ‘gotten somewhere’, whatever that means. I bumped into familiar faces, caught up on the past few years. 

That evening I stopped by an event and spent three hours bouncing from person to person, catching up. I could feel myself slipping back into that insecure – and, I hate to admit it, but slightly jealous? – mindset, and although it was a gentle, nudging feeling, and nowhere near the level of comparison I put myself through years before, it was somewhat of a reality check. Bumping into an old flame didn’t help, reminding myself of the silly 24 year old girl I used to be. 

I can’t help but remember that my time in Cornwall made me who I am now. It’s formed a huge part of my identity. My love of food. My love of cooking. My independence. The little rituals that get me through the day. My ideas about community. The concept of working for myself. How I crave nature. My love of swimming in deep blue cold water. Cooking outside. My thoughts on sustainability and locality and making and doing. 

I woke up the other morning in the van somewhere on the Lizard. The moon had shone behind our sleeping heads all night and I’d managed to catch the sunrise, a thin blanket of orange lining the horizon at approximately 5.26am. We crouched by the van, the sun peeking out just over the top, sheltering our little stove from the wind as coffee bubbled up in the percolator. We sipped from little ceramic cups made by a friend and I fried eggs and bread in a tiny pan, sprinkling smoked Cornish sea salt and shaking Cholua hot sauce on top. 

We walked the coast path from one cove to another. The wind had picked up a little which meant there was a welcome breeze holding hands with the heat of the sun. We stopped every so often to gaze over the headlands we’d already passed over, angling towards the different shades of blue below us. The sea rippled like silk pleats rustling in the wind. We ate crisps and olive bread and Cornish cheese on a near empty beach, passing the time by reading books and dipping into the sea. 

On other evenings, we had walked the familiar path from church to river and up along the top, past the swing and onto a few slabs of hot rocks at high tide, jumping out and looking up at the Monterey pines, being held by the sun, the sea, the people, the moment. We’d drunk pints of Verdant and ate the best pizza of my life (topped with spiced beef mince, peas, onions and a raita) and came home to laze in the evening light on the sofa. 

There were walks from Penryn to Flushing that snaked around the boat yard, through hilly open fields, cool shaded woodlands and ended at a spot neither of us knew as we clambered down steep and sharp rocks and swum through the seaweed because we’d got the tides a little wrong. All I think about are the tides and the sun and the swim spots. 

I feel like I am most myself when I am doing these things. But I don’t feel any less myself when I am able to do these things in pockets of time, hopping from London to the coast. I’m seeing the value in being able to feel at home in two places. To feel equally as happy in the whirling madness of the city, and the slowed-down quiet of the coast. Finding joy diving into the ponds as well as the crystal clear ocean. 

“In Cornwall I can swim all day but in London I can get pasta alla gricia any night of the week,” I buffoonishly wrote in my journal earlier this week. It’s a reductive statement. But, in a strange way, it tells me everything I need to know. You can have both. You can be more than one version of yourself, and those versions can make up the sum of you. I’m not sure who gave me the idea that I had to choose which person I’d like to be. Walt Whitman knew what was up: “I am large,” he wrote. “I contain multitudes.”

In the meantime, I’m finishing off a plate of fried eggs and Cornish speck. I’ll spend the afternoon eating snacks on the beach with friends. And later this week, I’ll be back in London, ordering the pasta alla gricia at my local. And I’ll still be the same person.