Southwest England, 2018.

I’d returned to England, over the pole from Canada, training southwest from London to the edge of the country, where a craggy coast faces North Atlantic, Celtic Sea, and a bay called St Ives. Same as the town and its ancient rhymed poem, the one about kittens and cats.

It would be my second trip in a year to this part of the world, home to artists and anglers. The first group lured me here. A collection of painters and poets, songwriters, performers. A new home for me. Or rather, an alternate home, 7500 kilometres and two days of travel away. Where my new chosen family resided.

As the train reached the end of the line, I stumbled from the platform, having been on the move for thirty straight hours. Into nighttime, with a star-speckled sky, impossibly clear. A planetarium view, planets and constellations. The wash of sea set a score, emanating from the base of high cliffs. I hoisted a pack and travel guitar, and made my way toward town.

A medieval street ambled through buildings, everything painted in tones of the ocean, dressed in stucco and slate. As though people here were an afterthought, an extension of saline and sea. Passing a cenotaph and marine memorial, I turned a corner to reach the high street, where live music pulsed from a pub. A hanging sign creaked in the breeze, its symbol a Golden Lion.

There, through the dark, came the thrum of Foo Fighters. Everlong. Being covered by locals, accents dissolving in music, the unilingual magic of song. I waited outside, for a moment, standing under the night. Let it ring under planets and stars, wondering, if everything could ever be this real forever, if anything could ever be this good again.

I pushed through the door, jammed my gear in a corner, got a pint from the bar. And watched as four sweaty young men played their prayer. The same song I’d watched Grohl perform overseas. Part of the show when it’s just Dave on stage, playing acoustically. The next day, here in England, and for the following week, I would do the same thing, sharing music akin to the guys in the pub, on a stage overlooking the sea. With family that shared more than blood, instead veins running with music, and art.

And through the fog of that music, the moment, an unending universe sky, I no longer knew where the dreamscape began, or where it might end. All I knew was that this was the most palpable thing I’d experienced. Ever. Intimacy only story and song can conjure, dissolution of distance, space, time. Everlong. Leaving me to wonder, if everything could ever be this real forever, if anything could ever be this good again.

Stereo Story #747

See also Smokie Dawson’s story about My Hero by Foo Fighters.

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Bill Arnott is a songwriter, poet, and bestselling author of the Gone Viking travelogues. His column Bill Arnott’s Beat runs in several magazines, and for his travels he’s received a Fellowship at London’s Royal Geographical Society. When not trekking with a small pack and journal, Bill can be found on Canada’s west coast, making music and friends.