Depth Over Distance

Somewhere

The air blew in cold as the doors of the train opened. The chill brought back memories of standing on this platform as a kid, back when I’d take whatever money I had and head into the city. There were only two directions to go in, but as a young lad the excitement of leaving my small town prompted many trips to the region’s capital. I was just visiting family over Christmas and knew that this small town would welcome me with open arms. When I left around the age of fourteen, I never really knew I was saying goodbye. At that age I had no idea about most things—let alone which country I wanted to live in. This constant coming and going never really left me; it became an intrinsic part of who I was.

My hometown hadn’t really changed. It had grown a little quieter, and most of its town core had shifted to the edge, like so many modern towns and cities. It offered me a comfortable and stable upbringing, for which I remain grateful. Revisiting your hometown is always paradoxical. Everywhere that once felt vast now seemed compressed. Cycling around on my bike had felt like a grand adventure; as an adult, I could cover those same distances with ease. Or maybe I had simply grown up and lost that childish sense of wonder.

The dead of winter rested over the town like a frozen blanket. There was little birdsong, and the trees stood bare. Wrapped up warm, I walked through the morning sun as it bathed the housing facades in gold and blunted the edge of the sharp cold. I never made images as a kid, yet now I came with a camera in hand. I had other hobbies back then, but the desire to be out there—to experience things firsthand—had never left me. A few people nodded or said good morning, but for the most part the streets and dirt tracks were my own. As I walked, I wondered what my life might have looked like if I had stayed. Would I be the same person, or would I have missed out on the chance to explore as much as I have? It could have all been different.

Nowhere was out of bounds when I was little. I could explore virtually every part of town, trusted to take care of myself and return home at a predetermined time. Playing outside predated the internet era and meant taking a watch with me so I knew when to head back. Revisiting after years away is inevitably nostalgic. It often felt as though I were travelling through time when returning to Germany—not only to my childhood hometown, but to a place marked by things fixed in another era: condom and cigarette automats, cash payments, and places where cards or digital currency were still an afterthought.

So much personal history remained in that small town among the hills. I loved returning and revisiting those places—smelling the smells of my childhood, hearing sounds that could transport you instantly back. I had always been nostalgic for times gone by, but returning home allowed me to fully travel through time. At my nan’s care home, I noticed old photographs of an uncle and a great-grandfather who had perished on the Eastern Front during the Second World War. They reminded me of previous generations’ struggles and pain, and in a quiet way gave me comfort about the relatively easy life I have lived so far. I had travelled a lot, but always on peaceful terms; imagining movement under such different circumstances was something I struggled to comprehend. Places could get under your skin like that. I had little left in common with this town, yet each time I returned, small markers from the past revealed themselves.

I had outgrown it. I played with the idea of moving back to Germany, but the same answer always surfaced. My infatuation with the ocean and solid groundswells cut straight through that possibility. As a child, I loved playing here, and I remain grateful for the upbringing I had. What I always found paradoxical was our ability to adapt to new environments and outgrow the last. I had done so countless times and could still imagine continuing to do so. Parts of me remained in that town—my tendency not to feel fully at home anywhere, for starters—yet it no longer felt like home. And in the end, I wasn’t sure it mattered whether someone had one at all.

relics of time

Thanks for being here always

Steve