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It might have been a photo I saw on Instagram: white, chalky cliffs stretching into the foggy distance, like thick loaves of country bread cut in half, shallow waters lapping gently at their feet. It might have been the desire to get away from Brighton, party town extraordinaire, with an air of folly about it, fueled by late-night drinking in the many pubs of the city. Or it might have been an unknown song of a siren that I couldn't quite identify yet. I just knew I had to go. My destination was Seven Sisters, UK. I had spent the night in Telscombe Cliffs, in Kylie's little apartment by the sea, and had woken up in a light drizzle, intermittent sunshine, and cries of the seagulls - omnipresent, hungry, and slightly obnoxious. A cup of steaming coffee to go and camera at the ready, I boarded the 12 Coaster bus that was going to drop me off at Birling Gap less than an hour later. The ride was comfortable and the views typical of the coastal English landscape. Green rolling hills and red-tiled roofs, sheep popping up here and there. I glanced at the map on my phone and decided to get off the bus at the next stop. I imagined it to be the closest to my destination. To my surprise, only another person got off at that same stop. I had expected tourists to join me, this being a rather popular destination. They stayed put, in the comfort and warmth of the bus. With a shrug, I tossed my empty coffee cup in the nearest bin and walked towards a country road that seemed to lead to the sea. My fellow traveler ahead of me, I walked past her confidently, eyes scanning the path ahead. So much fresh green, damp from the rain, more sheep in the distance grazing quietly on the hills. An occasional egret interrupted the stillness with its flashy white flight. The path narrowed and eventually disappeared. The only thing that I had left to guide me now was the horizon, with the beckoning of the silver sea. I kept walking through the tall grass, trying to avoid numerous traces of the above-mentioned sheep and enjoying the unspoiled, albeit muddy, landscape. I must've walked for a couple of hours in that idyllic English countryside before I reached the pebbly beach. And as I felt its crunch under my feet, looking past a lonely fisherman on the shore, I suddenly saw them, and gasped. Just like in that Instagram photo: one after the other, the white, tall, chalky cliffs falling sharply into the sea below. Barely a wave, barely a sound. A narrow path took me to the top of the first cliff in less than ten minutes , where my view quickly changed, embracing the vastness of the English Channel. I tried to imagine France in the distance, the mirroring of the landscape in the strikingly similar cliffs of Étretat. Eyes scanning the horizon, I inhaled the briny air deeply, watching the sun struggle through the clouds. The sea was glimmering, still and shiny, like a giant mirror stretched between France and England. I could not explain then, and still cannot now, the rush of emotion, the silencing of thoughts. I felt like I had come home. Not in an earthly, vernacular manner. It felt like home in a cosmic, eternal way. Sad to leave, I started to make my way back through blackberry brambles, jeans struggling to break loose from thorny branches. Back on the Coaster, staring at my muddy shoes and torn jeans, I replayed memories of the day as the lights of the town were quickly approaching. Wet with rain, the road seemed stained with red wherever the stop lights reflected on the asphalt, making it look like a disco floor. I arrived at Telscombe Cliffs in a light drizzle once again. A quick stop at the corner chippy for dinner, then back to the apartment. I turned on the TV to a rerun of Friends, and between giggles I ate the best fish and chips of my life, on Kylie's couch, on a Thursday, by the sea.