So, I heard some folks talking about this place, “Beury Beach,” a while back. Sounded like it might be a decent spot to, you know, just get away from things for an afternoon. I figured, why not? Always up for checking out new places, especially if they’re supposed to be relaxing.
I got my stuff together. Standard procedure, right? Grabbed a towel, a bottle of water, that book I’d been meaning to finish for ages. Slapped on some sunscreen even though it was a bit cloudy. You never know. Hopped on the bus, feeling pretty optimistic. The ride was okay, then there was a bit of a walk. And that’s when things started to feel a little… off. The neighborhood got less green, more grey. Lots of warehouses, some looking pretty rundown.
Then I saw the sign, or what was left of it, kinda propped up against a rusty fence. “Beury Beach.” And there it was. Well, “it.” Let me tell you, it wasn’t exactly the sandy paradise I’d pictured. More like a patch of dusty gravel sloping down to this murky, slow-moving canal. There were a couple of old tires chilling by the water’s edge, a broken plastic chair, and what looked like the ghost of a shopping cart. Real picturesque.
I just stood there for a minute. Part of me wanted to laugh. This was it. This was the “beach.” My grand escape. For a second, I thought about just turning around and heading straight back home. What was the point?
But then, you know, it got me thinking. Why am I even bothering to tell you about this glorified rubble pile? It’s because it sort of clicked with something else, a whole period of my life, actually. There was this time, maybe five or six years ago, when I’d just walked away from a really draining job. The kind where everyone’s always “super passionate” and “giving 110%” which really just meant working yourself into the ground for vague promises. I was done. Utterly fried.
So, I had some time on my hands. Not a lot of cash, but time. And I made this weird resolution to just… explore. To go see all those little places you hear about but never visit. Most of them were, frankly, duds. Like this one “secret garden” someone told me about that turned out to be three potted plants on a balcony you could barely see from the street. Or the “famous local bakery” that sold me the driest donut I’ve ever encountered.
Going to “Beury Beach” that day felt like one of those excursions. You set out with a certain expectation, and reality just gives you a shrug. But back then, during that post-job haze, I kept doing it. Kept seeking out these little non-adventures. It wasn’t really about finding something amazing anymore. It was more about the act of looking. About proving to myself I could still get out and do something, even if that something was just staring at a disappointing canal.
So, at “Beury Beach,” I didn’t lay out my towel. Definitely didn’t go for a swim. But I did wander around a bit. Walked along the canal path for a while. Checked out the graffiti on one of the abandoned warehouse walls – some of it was actually pretty good. Watched some pigeons strutting around like they owned the place. It wasn’t the peaceful afternoon I’d planned, not by a long shot.
But it was… an afternoon. It was different. Sometimes you go looking for the seaside, and you find a gritty bit of urban decay. And you just have to roll with it. Maybe you find a weird sort of peace in the quiet of a forgotten place, or maybe you just get a story out of it. That day, mostly, I just confirmed that not every place with “beach” in its name is worth the bus fare. But hey, at least it wasn’t another meeting about “optimizing stakeholder engagement,” right?
