There are several places over the course of my life so far that have called me to them. I don’t think that I could really tell you why—it’s just feeling.
The first place I recall feeling this way about is the Malvern Hills. They’re close to where I grew up, and I’ve been there more times than I can count, but they stayed on my mind all of the moments in between. They’re still on my mind, years later and thousands of miles away.
We’d go there when I was very young, and we’d collect water from the spring at St. Ann’s Well. The same building was home to a cafe where we’d get hot tea and scones as an antidote to the cold wind. It was built in 1813, and you’ve never had tea and scones somewhere more perfect.
When I got older I’d go there alone. I’d ride my motorbike halfway up and climb a few trees. I’d wander, and sit, and wander again. I’d sit quietly with the wild sheep and cows—suspicious at first, but if I stayed for long enough they’d eventually amble over to eat their grass next to me.
The second place that called to me was Trafalgar Square. London was the first place I went that really made me feel like I wasn’t at home any more, and Trafalgar Square was the first time I remember feeling butterflies. It still makes me feel butterflies, every time and especially at night.
When I was old enough to catch the train by myself (and afford the fare) I’d travel here alone, too. I’d wander around the city for hours, and I’d always end at Trafalgar Square. I’d sit on the steps in front of the National Gallery and just feel my insides endlessly swirl around.
I was lucky enough to live in London for several years, and whenever I ended up in Trafalgar Square those feelings would come right back. My sense of direction is terrible, and my wife (knowing that) would sometimes make sure we went there if nearby. I love her for that.
When we moved to New York it was the Brooklyn Bridge that spoke to me. It spoke to me before we lived there, somehow, but it was undeniable once I was up-close. It was beautiful and intimidating and I couldn’t believe that I could just stand there, looking up at it.
We had family visiting one year and they asked what I wanted to do for my birthday whilst they were in town. I knew exactly what I wanted to do: get up early and walk across the Brooklyn Bridge before everyone else did the exact same thing in droves; before it was engulfed.
The weather was terrible and somehow that made it even better. The clouds hung low and the bridge rose up into them. I didn’t want the walk to end. I wanted to walk on that bridge forever. To stand in the middle and look at that view. I still think about it now—all the time.
I live in the Bay Area now, and the first place to call me here was Point Reyes Lighthouse. I know this sounds a little… something, but I knew that I was supposed to go there before I went, and once I arrived I instantly felt that it was one of those places. Like the places I just spoke of.
The reason I drive out there—the reason I slog along the sand for hours to sit underneath, the reason that I’m drawn to make stories and write poetry and tell stories about this place—is because it’s one of those places. A place that calls me to it, for no clear reason.
These places that call us to them are special. They stay with us, and if we’re lucky, we get to revisit them. I get butterflies from the hills just as I do from the square, the bridge and the lighthouse. I’m so grateful that each of them exists, and even more-so that they called me to them.