A Precipitous Life

Life on the Edge

Photo by Jesse Bowser on Unsplash

I’ve always been drawn to edges. Whether this is a psychopathic trait or an exploratory one, I’m not quite sure. My ex-husband use to call me a reckless lunatic, mostly shouted at me when I was close to the edge of a cliff, for example, trying to capture a particularly captivating photograph. He may have been right on at least one count, but not necessarily for my cliff-hanging proclivity.

As a child, I felt compelled to walk close to the edge of the road, hanging my toes over the kerb before crossing; I was never phased by the edge of a railway platform and in fact, it was this memory, as I stood at Clapham Junction last week, which spurred this week’s theme. Whether it is my looming mortality or my general anxiety, I don’t know, but I’ve been actively avoiding edges for a while now.

suspended glass viewing platform Cabo Girão Debbie Ross

When we had fewer caring responsibilities, my Sister and I would go on an annual holiday to take in some pre-winter sunshine: swimming, walking, reading, going on day trips and generally getting a refresh and a re-set. My sister has never liked heights, whereas I have always had a particular fascination with them. I would climb almost anything for the view. In Madeira, there’s a suspended glass viewing platform at Cabo Girão, the highest cape in Europe. It’s is effectively a freestanding ledge jutting out into the wild blue nothing. I was looking forward to seeing and experiencing this and I did stand on it and take photos, but I felt slightly insecure - an unusual feeling for me. I convinced myself it was the number of people there - I dislike crowds and can get quite twitchy in them - but I’ve never been sure it was only that. On another of our holidays we visited Lanzarote. I was keen to visit the Castillo de San José in Ariceife, see the art and eat at the restaurant. The entry level was on the first floor and to access the restaurant below there was a floating spiral staircase, without a hand rail. My younger self would have had no hesitation in striding boldly to descend it. My older self was more hesitant, to the extent of becoming anxious and mildly panicked. I stood there, between groups of other visitors heading down, havering and sweaty. My mind wanted to do it - my legs were non-compliant. I would like to tell you that I mastered my fear and went down any way, but in the interests of authenticity, I need to let you know that this was not the case. I asked an attendant if there was another way down and he took me to a side staircase, which was mercifully attached to the solid stone wall. Had there not been an alternative, I think I might have eventually managed it anyway, although I can’t be entirely sure.

As a youngster, I loved climbing trees, seeing how high I could go into the protective leafy boughs. My ability to descend, once up high, was not equal to my scrambling ascents and I was forever getting into difficulty and into trouble from my parents. I’ve never had to be rescued per se, but a helping hand has sometimes been required to ensure my safe landing. The fact that I wore callipers and special shoes and was inherently accident prone should perhaps have deterred me from such escapades, but I was young. What can I say? Thankfully my parents weren’t over-protective, as most parents weren’t in the 60’s and 70’s.

Even if I cope less well with heights as I age (a sensible fear of falling or a failure of courage - I’m not sure which) I still manage to be on the edge of things. We lived for 12 years somewhere that was designated as an ‘isolated dwelling’ literally on the edge of civilisation - no bus services, no shops, no mains gas or water, no serviceable internet and copper pairs for our telecoms. We were frequently without water and sometimes without power too. We chose to live there, of course, although we didn’t realise how socially isolating it could be. We were fortunate to make friends in the village, 3 miles away, who we’ve maintained friendships with since moving 2 years ago. We’re still on the edge now, literally on the edge of a wee village. We’re the last house - or the first, depending on your perspective - in a small community that was originally a fishing village. It has its share of second homes and holiday homes, yet still manages to maintain an active village life. We’ve been pleasantly surprised by how friendly and welcoming people have been, although we still enjoy being away from the centre of things.

I’ve never been popular, never gravitated towards the ‘in crowd’. Bullied through school, I was happy to gel with the uncool kids. We were effectively outcasts, on the very peripheries of the school’s social functioning. I wasn’t happy being bullied, but I was always happy not to be in the melee, not having to bother too much about what I wore, what music I listened to, which celebrities I liked. As an aside, I didn’t like any ‘pop stars’ or celebrities and had Peanuts posters adorning my teenage walls well into my late teens and after that, posters from Athena with motivational quotes - anyone else?

Being on the edge gives you a different perspective - whether it’s the edge of a cliff, or the edge of something less concrete. I think I would be a very different person without living so much at the edge of things.