I was in Body Pump class this morning, pulsing to the beat and staring at the cold sea in the distance, Harvest House peering over the cliff like an eccentric old Aunt, and suddenly I felt sad. So sad I thought I might cry, right there and then, with 10kg of weight on my shoulders.
It was a taste of grief, a moment when I realised that I’ll soon be leaving this town I love.
Felixstowe isn’t swanky, it’ll never be a town to host Waitrose, but it has a beauty beyond even the most fashionable seaside towns. A sandy beach, Edwardian houses, the Spa Gardens. It may be faded and unfashionable but this place is my familiar, my safety, my rock.
And the people of the town, not always warm to newcomers, are the lifeblood. As I left the gym I saw the guy who works at the local supermarket.
“How’s it going, babe?”
I couldn’t lie. “I’m a bit stressed. I’m leaving town in January. Scary.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, “Everything’s scary once you leave `Stowe. Come in and say bye before you go, yeah?”
My heart melted at this small offering as I thought, this will not happen to me in Luxembourg. For starters my French isn’t good enough.
But if Felixstowe is my husband, I want Luxembourg to be my lover. I want to fall, and hard, for its beauty. I want to be so bowled over that I forget the cosiness of the familiar, forget the cinema where you can order cheesy chips, forget the smell of salt in the air as I sit in my beach hut and watch the waves.