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Exit stage West

What will I leave behind in the wilds of the West? The better part of two years has shown me some of the best surf of my life flat out... mebe I should ammend that very quickly; Ireland has no waves. A void. Nothing here, nada, not a sausage. Do NOT come here.

Jaysuz. Such a position to be in. Out of respect for the locals and the precious gems that sparkle in their clutches, I can say nothing. I've seen what will come. I grew up learning to hustle in the water and to imagine these waters frothing thick with the flies of a thousand weekend warriors... good grief. Crikey, in the last two years I've seen the crowds gather like crows upon carcass of the few spots I was so privileged to be enlightened to.
With a tear. I can see it in the slient, pained gaze of of their eyes - they know what's coming...

But I must leave for greener pastures. Ahh, sure, by this stage I know it's all the same colour. Hah.
The Cornish coast! Bring it on. But south west England? There's the sacrifice - waves for cash or vice versa in this scenario, the financial death knell sounded by the last six months has necessitated this shift.

Maybe it's part of some deep seated fetish for that hustle which has called me to the front line. I know it's going to be a feckin zoo over there, but the call of the wild beckons. The thunder of a thousand hooves, shrill calls, cat-like of a million screaming children, beaches blackened by bodies, water churned to piss-thick soup and...

Strewth.
Now that I put it that way...

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