The Dull Man and the Sea

For the past thirty years, there had been only one way Barry began his New Year, and that was stark bollock naked in the cold, cleansing sea. It was a pilgrimage he took after Christmas, in the betwixtmas, or the Crimbo limbo, or however else you wanted to call that uneasy time that bridged the old and new. The day after Christmas, come hell or high water, he’d sling his tent on his back and set out on the week’s walk between home and his customary ablution spot.

Then each New Year’s Day, on the secluded cliffside pitch, he’d emerge at sunrise, first unzipping his hydrophobic-down sleeping bag, then his expedition-grade tent, then each of his tubular-yarn layers, until finally he greeted the year’s birthday in his birthday suit. He’d wade out into the water with slow steps. Splash the neck - get the body used to the cold. Control the breathing. Then plunge in a freezing baptism, before springing up, arms outstretched, embracing the new year and the cold shock - before bolting back to shore for his thermals and a pre-readied flask of hot coffee.

But it was not yet that sacrosanct morning. On only the second day of Barry’s coastal pilgrimage, he woke to his tent being whipped almost completely from beneath him. He’d double-pegged and stashed water weights on the westerly side, but the wind fought hard against them. One might say it was fortunate the tent had lasted the night, but Barry was not fortunate: he was prepared. As his wife had told him: Barry was a dull man. Dull men check the weather report. A storm could not hold back these hallowed steps.

Yet as he watched his toothbrush ripped from his hands, within moments becoming just a speck on the horizon, he felt something deeper than frustration - for the Dull Man inside him knew there was no preparation sufficient when you’re at the mercy of an Act of God.

He contemplated returning. Spending New Year back at home, alone, the sunrise obscured by dense garden hedges, fulsome from his excellent tendering.

‘Press on,’ he said, extending his walking pole with a snap.

Even his double-vented umbrella threatened to flip. Battered by driving rain, he was thankful he’d tested out the defences of his waterproofs before embarking - this year there had been no Christmas Day company to dissuade him from his ministrations.

A single road, flanked by groaning trees, wound its way down towards the coast, and onto the next stage of his journey. Barry saw two cars drive down, before returning. He pushed forwards, but on rounding a hairpin bend, he came to see what the Dull Man in him had feared.

An enormous yew lay sprawled across the road, its roots torn free. It might have been a century old, maybe more. It was cordoned off by a fluttering length of red-and-white tape, and beside that stood a man in a hi-vis jacket, collar turned up, hood cinched tight against the wind.

‘It’s no go,’ he said, indicating with a wave that Barry should return. ‘Best head back, get to safety.’

‘I’ll just nip round,’ he said, already veering slightly toward the exposed roots.

‘You got a death wish, fella? There’s three more trees and a flood down there, not to mention more that might still go down.’

Barry looked at the sizeable tree, already doing calculations - how many chainsaws, incisions…

‘How long ‘til it’s sorted?’ he asked.

‘Can’t say right now. Road to the hospital’s blocked as well, so that’s where the crew’s going first.’ He saw Barry’s reaction. ‘You got somewhere you need to be?’

Barry gave a small nod.

‘Sorry mate, no way you can camp out tonight,’ said the man. ‘Try the pub back up the road - Travellers Joy, can’t miss it.’

‘Thanks. I know it.’

He’d been there before, with Janine. Intentionally given it a miss this time.

He glanced behind him. No one on the road. ‘Listen,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Fifty quid, you let me pass and say no more about it. Never saw me.’

The man's expression was unmoving and Barry immediately knew his mistake.

‘My good conscience is not up for sale,’ he replied, firmly.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.

Travellers Joy it was, for today, at least.

* * *

The pub had been serving travellers since the sixteenth century and looked as though it had stopped trying to impress anyone shortly thereafter. It was low-ceilinged and crooked, the beams dark with age, the floor uneven beneath worn rugs. Greenery had been tacked up wherever there was space - holly, ivy and mistletoe.

A log fire crackled along the back wall, behind two unoccupied armchairs. Barry hesitated in the doorway, rain dripping from his sleeves, gauging how close he dared get to its pull. Eventually he relented, dumped his pack by the hearth, and let the warmth reach his hands.

From somewhere out of sight came the enthusiastic strains of a piano - Hark the Herald. The harmonies wobbled with a few bum notes, but barrelled on regardless, the player clearly not bothered that it was yesterday’s tune.

The bar’s solo occupant drained the dregs of a lunchtime ale and offered Barry a nod.

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘No Janine, this year?’

Barry sighed. ‘No Janine ever, Pete.’

A man in a Harris tweed jacket burst in from the adjoining room, antlers askew on his head, pink neckerchief crooked.

‘Barry!’ he said. ‘So sorry for your loss, I didn’t know - let me get you a drink.’

‘Oh, she’s not dead, Gerald,’ he said. ‘Just gone.’

Gerald presented him with a drink nonetheless. His hand hovered for a moment, before grasping the glass, and gulping it down.

‘I’m a dull man, apparently,’ he said, staring at the beer mats. ‘Just a dull man who runs a hardware shop.’

‘Oh, you’re a dull bastard, all right,’ said Pete, clapping him on the back.

‘You’ve been a dull bastard three score years,’ said Gerald, chuckling. ‘Can hardly have been a surprise to her.’

‘It was a bloody surprise to me,’ said Barry. ‘One day we’re discussing pension contributions, next thing I’m halving the shopping list. That was March. No warning, and no second chance, it seems.’

A pause, then: ‘I had no family other than hers.’

The three men sipped in silence. Pete seemed to be reaching around for something - anything - to say. At last, inspiration struck. Turning to Gerald, he asked: ‘Why’d your wife leave you?’

Gerald spluttered into his pint. ‘My piano playing, I think.’

‘She was here before you,’ Pete pressed. ‘How come you got her family pub?’

Barry had always wondered, and never asked.

‘She wanted something different, I didn’t,’ shrugged Gerald. ‘I get to talk with boring bastards and murder a bit of Mozart all year round. Suits me fine.’

Barry hmphed. ‘Probably time to knock the carols on the head now though, isn’t it? Sets me on edge after Christmas.’

‘This is my window, and I’m making the most of it,’ straightening his antlers. ‘But I’ll play the miserable ones, just for you.’

* * *

The roads were still blocked by the time the light began to fade. It’s not safe in the trees, said his inner Dull Man. Barry booked himself in for the night. He could make up one day’s walking and still arrive on time for New Year.

Gerald’s efforts to clear up between The Coventry Carol and Gabriel’s Message had been so half-hearted, by that point in the day Barry was surrounded by semicircle of mostly-empty glasses.

He slid down in his soporific fireside chair, doom-scrolling through Janine’s Christmas photos.

A family arrived not long after - goodness knows what possessed them to brave that weather, and they looked like they were regretting it. Parents, three young children, and someone he assumed was Grandma.

The middle child had jumped in a puddle and soaked her shoes and socks, which were now drying by the fire. She coloured in with such vigour she knocked orange juice all over her dress, soaking through that too. Of course, no spares had been brought. The eldest refused everything on the menu. The father stared bleakly at the prices. The mother attempted diplomacy and failed. And all the while, the youngest child provided a soundtrack of implacable screaming.

‘He’s overtired,’ said the grandma, by way of apology, catching Barry’s eye.

Barry may well have been dull, but he didn’t think that mattered to a toddler, and he knew as well as any parent how to play peekaboo. When the youngest locked eyes with him mid-wail, he did the honours with a festive napkin.

The screaming faltered. The grandma looked encouragingly at Barry. ‘Well go on,’ she said, as the child toddled towards him.

Ten rounds later, Barry was reconsidering his generosity. The child showed no sign of tiring. He was saved only when the grandmother returned with a bowl of chips.

‘Here, Harry,’ she said, and the child - as though the utter devastation of the previous forty-five minutes had never happened - tucked in with gusto.

‘Do you mind?’ she asked him, motioning to the empty seat opposite. ‘Don’t want to upset the equilibrium.’

‘Don’t mind me,’ he said, standing and holding out a hand. ‘Barry.’

She shook it. ‘Marina. Would you believe me if I said this was going better than being in the house? Being boxed in like Christmas presents sends us all a bit mad, doesn’t it?’

Barry followed her gaze to where the parents were attempting - unsuccessfully - to prevent the middle child from catapulting rice into her mouth from arm’s length.

‘And what brings you here, Barry?’ she asked.

‘I shouldn’t be here at all, really,’ he began, and before he quite knew how it had happened, he was explaining the whole thing: the walk, the timing, the sea. Not wanting to appear too dull, he even included the nudity.

‘But it’s a very secluded spot, I hasten to add. And a very short, er, dip,’ he said.

Marina’s smile was mischievous. ‘I do hope you get to greet the New Year with open arms.’

Raising voices cut across them. The eldest child and the father were now engaged in a debate.

‘I may have to -’ she said, beginning to get up. ‘It’s not my place to say, but the situation - my son - he’s a good dad but it’s just this time of year. I should help. Good to meet you, Barry.’

After that, she remained on peacekeeping duties, only raising a hand in farewell as she ushered her fractious mob homewards.

* * *

Sunrise the next morning was uniform grey, obscured behind a wall of thick cloud. It lightened gradually, giving no light nor shade. None of the direction Barry had hoped for.

Barry shouldered his pack and thought about sunrises past. Coral-pinks and pastels, honey golds, or even fiery reds.He’d never claimed to read meaning into them; that had always been Janine’s sort of thing. Still, even he could recognise beauty when it presented itself, and even summon up a little bit of wonder.

He’d decided that if the road was still blocked, he’d walk on anyway. He’d reworked the distances in his head. It was tight, but possible. He was nothing if not methodical.

The bend came into view.

The tape was still there.

So was the man in the hi-vis jacket.

‘You can keep your money to yourself,’ he snapped. ‘You’re still not coming through.’

* * *

Gerald had been halfway through a faltering Joy to the World when Barry traipsed back in.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, as Barry slumped back into the fireside chair. ‘You know, I've got a pond out back. If you can’t make it down to the coast, you can always hop in that to start the New Year. Not quite the North Sea, I know.’

Barry contemplated brushing pondweed out of his hair, fetid stagnant water on his skin.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Gerald.

Barry shrugged.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But I can’t sit around all day waiting for something to happen. You don’t happen to have a chainsaw?’

Gerald adjusted his necktie.

‘Can’t say I’ve ever needed one.’

Barry looked around. On his yearly visits, he’d always accepted the pub as a relic. But even relics need love and attention, and Gerald had let this one slip. The skirting boards were chipped, the tables were uneven, the flickering came not from candlelight, but from lightbulbs on the fritz - enough jobs for several days, let alone one.

‘If I’m stuck here,’ Barry said, ‘I might as well make myself useful. You got any tools?’

‘Joy to the world,’ said Gerald, beaming. ‘Do please accompany me to the garage.’ And he led him through to the back.

Barry worked steadily. He checked the road whenever he could justify a pause, each time met with the same answer. Still blocked. So he moved on to the next job, and the next, recalculating in the background as he went - distance, speed, time. He could still make it, if things shifted soon. Had to believe that.

By early afternoon he found himself in the garden, standing at the edge of Gerald’s pond. He took off his boots and socks and dipped a toe into the water, gauging the depth, the temperature, the thickness of the weed. It would, no doubt, be unpleasant.

Inside, the pub carried on, subdued in a haze of fire smoke. A couple ate in silence at a corner table. A woman arrived already unsteady, drank quickly, and drove off again. Pete remained glued to the bar, his questions ranging wildly - from football to bowel screenings - without any sense that one topic might require more care than the other. Gerald accompanied it all with a dogged rendition of In the Bleak Midwinter.

There was precious little daylight left.

Barry checked the coverage on Gerald’s freshly painted wall, hands in his pockets. He hovered while it dried, waiting for the colour to even. Perhaps he was foolish for feeling so drawn to that place, that time, that act of renewal in the waves. His inner Dull Man told him the truth: regardless of what he did, the year would turn, as it otherwise would have done.

Yet somehow the prospect of the New Year ticking over without it being done… It dawned on him that without realising it, there were decisions waiting in the wings - opportunities, relationships, other lives - that seemed to be waiting for permission, before they could be acknowledged.

He wondered if he should wait for the worker to take a break. Slip past while no one was looking. He might make it. Might not. What were the consequences, really? Another day - even perhaps another evening, and the window would be missed.

He was still turning this over when the pub door opened again.

He looked up, surprised - and not displeased - to see Marina step inside, this time unburdened of children and emotional refereeing.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ she replied. ‘Well. Mixed feelings, Barry. Am I right in assuming your situation remains unresolved?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘The highway workers are men after my own heart, it seems,’ he said. And though she hadn’t asked for details, he found himself explaining anyway - the road, the timings, the recalculations. He heard himself doing it and winced slightly.

‘This is extremely dull,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. In any case, what brings you back here yourself?’

‘Harry,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘Left his hat behind. I imagine it was discarded in protest.’ She hesitated, then added, more gently, ‘And for what it’s worth, I don’t find your story dull at all. I’d like to hear more about this pilgrimage of yours. But perhaps I shouldn’t get in the way of this moment of indecision.’

She reached into her bag and produced a scrap of paper, writing quickly.

‘If you find yourself stranded another evening,’ she said, handing it to him, ‘you might welcome some company.’

He took it, nodding as if she’d offered him a parking permit rather than an unexpected kindness.

Gerald returned from the back, passing a small knitted hat across to Marina.

‘Gerald,’ he began. ‘How are the works getting on?’

Gerald closed his eyes with practiced patience. ‘They’re making progress, apparently. But no end date just yet.’

Marina slipped the hat into her bag. ‘I’d best be off,’ she said, touching Barry’s arm lightly as she turned.

A Dull Man checks the weather report and plans accordingly. A Dull Man studies and hypothesises. A Dull Man looks up to the sky - out, and not in.

‘Actually,’ Barry said. ‘If you wouldn’t mind - would you have time for a cup of coffee? I could do with bending your ear for a moment. I think I’ve been looking in the wrong direction.’

She smiled.

‘Dear Barry,’ she said. ‘In these in-between times which can be so strange, surely the kindness of strangers - well, it’s almost a duty to the season. You may tell me anything. In fact -’ she leaned in, ‘- you might say, you can bare it all.’