It’s been years since my husband last joined me on one of ritual trips to Clevedon. I had asked Patricius to come, when I’d originally planned to go on the Saturday, but he had plans and when I switched to the Sunday because of the weather I felt that I wanted to be alone. Since my husband left I have been busy and social – and yesterday’s trip to the puppy play social left me emotionally bankrupt with a desperate need to recharge.

Routines and rituals ground my life. Although not to the same extent as Castle Gormenghast!

Doing the same things at fixed times of the day, week, or year psychically grounds me and restores me emotionally and spiritually.

Today’s visit to remember my mum and nan is doing just that. Me and the dog enjoying the quiet of the waves and wind, and the chatter of people up on the prom while we sit on a little pebble beach eating chips.

Food is such an important aspect of my rituals: since a child, major milestones in my life and the life of my family were marked with meals. Often Chinese takeaways with my nan loving king prawns were the treat when I was young, as they were a cheap way to feed the family and try feel special. Later on we’d go out for a meal as a family.

Trips to Clevedon didn’t start with a food or treat element. My nan brought my brother and me here. Being an impoverished pensioner, the time she spent with us was way more valuable than any chips or ice-cream.

When I was grown up, it was my turn to bring nan to Clevedon. She loved to sit and watch the moody sea under glooming clouds. I’d buy her chips, ice-cream, or a cuppa tea and piece of cake.

My mum also brought nan to Clevedon – they shared many a happy day together here. And mum and I would bring nan.

Three generations enjoying time in a space that became sacred just to us.

Funny, when nan died, mum and I would keep coming back to Clevedon to re-enact the things we’d have done with her. I’m became a place shared with mum and myself and we’d come here just because we’d like it – in between the almost holy visits of anniversaries and birthdays.

When mum passed, the rituals were well established, and I kept coming back – now not only for my nan, but also to commune with my mother’s spirit.

Missing a visit makes me feel out of sorts – the sense of loss that is at the core of grief becomes more intense. Only the performance of my personal rites of remembrance put me back into my right mind.

Throughout all of history, humans have performed ceremonies to connect with the ancestors. For some, it was a fear that they in their turn will be forgotten if they do not teach their own children the importance of these rights.

I do not care for such thoughts of immortality. When I’m gone there will be none to remember or care.

For a long time I wished my husband would join me on these visits, to sit with me in the remembering and understand why these rituals still matter. But he always felt that grief should have a timeline, an end point I was meant to have reached by now. It hurt – not because he was unkind, but because we moved at different emotional speeds. Today, though, sitting alone feels gentler. No pressure to “be better”. Just space to feel what I feel.

I sit here at the end of the pier, drinking my tea and eating my cake, watched by the hopeful gaze of a permanently hungry beagle. The weather is cold but bright, blessed by the weather goddess that is my nan, inspired by my mother the muse to write about me time here.

Alone – but feeling loved still.