I am come again to the temple of the nanna goddess on Clevedon pier. Today she has arranged for a moody sea, whipped by winds. So far I am spared the goddess’s tears, but she withholds her smile from me.

I make an offering to the priestess, before progressing to the inner sanctum, where I make sacrifice. I partake of the holy sacraments of tea and cake, and pour a libation.

I listen to the roar of the wind, slashing the flag of St George into ribbons, reducing it’s length by a third in its fury.

The wind lashed waves crash beneath me. I lay flat in the shelter of a bench and listen to the wonder of nature. I can feel the giant structure sigh and shudder beneath me. The nanna goddess loves the moody sea, and sat and watch for hours while it rained.

The sea is infinite, stretching to a horizon which can move closer in the dark and violent weather, yet travels further away when the sky is clear.

I am reminded of other family traditions, aside from time at this little seaside town with my nan, and later with my mum.

I remember the various bits of poetry my man would recite. Only ever the first few lines; her husband longing dead when I was born knew the whole piece, but nan only ever remembers the first verse – if that. But she loved poetry and had the soul of a poet – I like to think that I share that gift.

Even when dementia has stolen her mind, my mum and I would bring her here to see the sea, eat cake and drink tea (some of which she would spill). If there is such a thing as luck in that hideous illness, at least she was happy company even in those days.

For years after my nan died, my mum and I would still come and do the things with each other that we would have done with her mum. My mum would say “she’s arranged for weather for us today!”

My thoughts move on to times that I have been to Clevedon. Sometimes my husband would come with me. Sometimes it would be the entire family. Both my mum and my nan loved my husband.

Then he stopped coming.

He stopped going to family events. He didn’t see my father, nor my brother and nephews.

He would say “if we split up, I will lose all these people.”

Fear of loss is a path to darkness. It makes people withdraw. He lost my family long before ha and I split up.

But still my dad and my brother ask after him.

Had he chosen, he could have had a relationship with my family that survived us.

Fear of loss can cause the very loud that one is afraid of.

A enduring connection can survive even death.

So I return to the temple on the water and remember those whom I have loved.