I was in my home town today – for work, rather than anything interesting. I took the opportunity to drive to the top of Olivers Mount and looked down upon the town of my birth. From up here, I can see the first twenty-five years of my life spread out before me. Down there is the house that I grew up in, the place that I first kissed a girl, my schools, the old railway yard that my friends and I explored and the beaches that we roamed.
I moved away from Scarborough in 2005. I was twenty-four years old and felt ready to leave it in the dust. For a long time before, and after, I hung all the baggage of my childhood and adolescence on this place: my parents’ divorce, the loss of my mum and grandparents, relationship breakdowns, broken friendships – all of it. I hung it neatly and then left it behind. So long suckers. Adios. I actively avoided the place In the intervening years. Scarborough became a dirty word.
Lately, I’ve begun to feel different about it. The good memories are the ones I think of first, and the bad ones no longer weigh me down. When I come back to Scarborough now, it just feels like home.