Never go back! It’s a frequent admonition, reminding us that the world we find on our return may not have the magic it possessed at the time it was laid down, ‘shining’ in our memories.

It’s often used in the context of a romantic involvement; the futility of attempting to recreate real emotion through place.

But what if the going-back involved an early first-stage development of a skill – an ability? Would the same disappointment apply?

When I was 13, my father bought a small sailing dinghy while we were on holiday in the Tenby region of South Wales. We spent the holiday learning to launch and row it, but didn’t dare put the sail up with such large crowds to witness our fumbling.

The next two years saw us learning to sail in a rather haphazard, but delightful fashion. On various lakes in Cheshire, and then – gloriously – along the Red Wharf Bay coast of the north-east corner of the island of Anglesey, we achieved hard-won competence of a rugged variety; and could take to the water with the best of them…

Messing about in a boat had become the most fun.

We visited Anglesey often in the summer, months, back then. I also had a memory of snorkelling somewhere sheltered in the same place – I was an active teen! My best memories of that time were of a small cove with a strange name where the bay seemed sheltered by a rising headland from the wilder expanse of Red Wharf Bay.

As an adult, I often returned to Anglesey, usually staying on the western coast around Rhosneigr and Trearddur. Whenever had the chance, I would take a detour across the island and try to find that little bay where I had learned to sail all those years ago. But I never could. Seemingly familiar places turned out to be different, and that magical goal of reunion eluded me.

I left it behind, along with other unfulfilled youthful wishes.

As I’ve written before, my mother is 93 and her vascular dementia is advancing… Holidays were always a very special part of her life and I like to take her away for a short break from the care home in which she lives on Morecambe seafront. She’s happy enough, and the care is excellent and friendly, but the idea of revisiting one of the places she loved, if only for a few days, still fills her with delight.

Some years ago, my wife discovered a converted farm, near Amlwch (pronounced Am-Lock) that had been turned into a modern but cosy hotel – and it was dog-friendly. We loved it, and have returned several times in and out of season. We contacted them and they were happy to have mum stay there in her own room, next door to ours, so we weren’t far in the event of a panic.

Sadly, our local cattery could only take our Rag Doll cat (Misti) for two nights, so my wife offered to come down in her own car with the dog and return early so that mum and I could have the extra full day of what might be our last chance at such a holiday. At 93 nothing is certain.

On the morning of our final full day, with the sun bright in the sky, we decided to play one of our ‘let’s get lost’ travel adventures. This comprises heading for a rural location and literally taking a random set of turns to see where we end up. The satnav will usually rescue us at the end of such playful folly, but the ever-new exploration is worth the disorientation.

We found ourselves in a warren of tiny roads near Dulas, and through this, discovered two new tiny bays… but neither was the mysterious sailing beach of long ago. Eventually, feeling hungry, we decided to abandon the game and let the car take us to the more populous Red Wharf Bay Area.

At this point, mum said she had a craving for pizza – one of her favourite foods. I explained that we would be lucky to find such an establishment, but we’d give it a go. Within twenty minutes the satnav had returned us to the main coast road, and I switched it off, confident I knew where I was.

Then I took a left turn towards the sea and realised I hadn’t known at all.

The country lane was narrow, steep and unfamiliar. There would be no chance of turning round until we reached a farm or similar at the bottom.

Suddenly, the landscape changed and became less wooded and much more ‘managed’. There emerged a large car park on our right and, next to it, a modern white shop displaying water-sports equipment.

I began to get that tingly feeling…

The tinglies only increased when we parked the car and approached the white shop. There were tables under an overhang and people were chatting and eating in the midday sun. The menu was limited – just pizza, served in a box for eating at the tables or taking to the beach…

It was excellent pizza!

Thirty minutes later, and replete, we made our way on foot down the last curve of the road. There on our left was an entrance track to a small marina with steps down to the sheltered water…

… from which the boy I had been at 13 had entered the cold sea, venturing out between the bobbing boats, into the fullness of the bay.

The joy of recognition matched the perfect day… and I was mentally and emotionally carried back to the time and place of my first sailing adventures.

And in a vivid continuation of memory, on that lovely bay, shining now as it had then, was a small ‘Golbin-class’ dinghy, and a thirteen year old boy, his heart racing with excitement, the master of sail, rudder and rope as his small craft zig-zagged across the choppy waves of the waters of Traeth Bychan.

The joy was compounded by the knowledge that I had not found the lost place, but rather, it had, in a very real sense – with my mother in tow – found me… We sat on one of the benches next to the small beach. Mum began talking to a fellow artist and they spent the next two hours chatting, while I smiled at her happiness and drank in the powerful presence of the reunion.

Never go back? Well, maybe once or twice, just in case…

©Stephen Tanham 2023

Stephen Tanham is a Director of the Silent Eye, a journey through the forest of personality to the dawn of Being.

http://www.thesilenteye.co.uk and http://www.suningemini.blog