The evening breeze, cooled by the frigid NorthSea never fails to welcome me to this place. Nonedescript, marked only by a pole and a small 4×4 plaque, it can seem like Oya or her Viking consort Njord chose to channel their chilling breath through this spot. For 40 days now, I have had to endure the icy chill the wind brings. Sometimes it can feel like the wind reaches out an icy claw and grabs the heart, as though it would yank it out and leave me for dead.
We all gather, like bees drawn to precious nectar, different faces, different colors; sometimes grumpy, sometimes affording the luxury of a fleeting smile – all united by a singular objective – jumping aboard Bus 21. The most we exchange are curt nods, or on a particularly good day the obligatory comment about the weather.
They tell me this is the coldest winter in 50 years. That is scant consolation for the waves of shivering that wash over me – whilst my teeth beat out an incohenrent rhythm. Seconds stretch into minutes – which seem like hours – as the gods of this deserted place seek to seize their pound of flesh.
The cold reminds me of one thing. This is not my place…. I am me, journeying through… But standing for a moment…