Moumita recalls that Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight wrapped her in gentle magic—one warm cappuccino, endless sea air, and time that finally slowed down, for Different Truths.
It’s the place and the cup – a beautiful conspiracy between the two! It’s strange how some places wrap themselves around you quietly, without any grand gesture, without trying to impress you. Portsmouth did that to me. It wasn’t just the city itself or the sea or the little corners I kept stumbling into. It was the way everything came together — the rhythm of the streets, the softness of the mornings, and the simple comfort of holding a warm cappuccino while the world moved gently around me. It felt like the city had its own way of slowing time, as if it wanted you to breathe a little deeper and look a little closer.
My mornings there became a ritual of their own. The air always had that chilly, rejuvenating freshness, like the sea had washed the night clean before handing the day over. Sometimes the gulls would start before the people did, and the boats in the harbour made this soft clinking sound, as if they were stretching their arms after a long sleep. I’d walk with my cappuccino — always hot, always creamy — and there was something about the taste that felt richer than it should. Maybe the sea air stirred something in it. Perhaps it was the warmth in my hands on those breezy mornings. Or maybe it was simply the feeling of being in a place that didn’t ask you to rush.
I began drifting through Portsmouth the way you wander through a story you’re not in a hurry to finish. There were days I’d leave my place with no plan at all. I’d slip into tiny cafés tucked between old buildings, wander through markets filled with chatter and colour, and step into vintage stores where every object seemed to carry someone else’s memory. The city had a way of letting you discover things instead of showing them to you all at once. And somewhere along the way, I realised I wasn’t just moving through the city — the city was moving through me.
But what I remember most clearly are the people. Portsmouth locals possess a warm, unassuming charm. They smile easily, talk freely, and somehow make you feel like you’ve been part of their routine for ages. A Caffè Nero remembering your order, an old shopkeeper sharing a quick story, someone offering you directions with a joke thrown in — little things that stitched themselves into my days. After a while, it didn’t feel like I was passing through. It felt like I belonged.
Now and then, though, I’d crave a different kind of quiet — something softer, almost untouched. That’s when I’d take the ferry to the Isle of Wight. The ride itself felt like a slow exhale. The wind brushing past, the sea flashing silver in the sunlight, the coastline stretching out like a welcome you didn’t need to earn. That short journey always felt like crossing into another world — a world where everything moved at half its usual speed.
The Isle of Wight has a charm that doesn’t try to impress you; it just lets you settle into it. Green hills rolling towards the water, white cliffs catching the sunlight, cottages that look like they’ve been sitting there forever — the whole island feels like a painting someone forgot to finish, leaving just enough space for you to step inside.
Shanklin Beach became my quiet corner of that world. I’d sit there with a hot cappuccino, a plate of pepperoni garlic bread and sausages, and the kind of stillness you don’t realise you’ve been craving until you have it. Food tastes different when you’re looking at the sea — somehow more honest, more comforting. The waves would come in slowly, folding themselves into the sand, as if repeating the same secret over and over. The air was a mix of warmth and the faint sweetness from a nearby café. And the sky — wide, soft, impossibly blue — made everything feel a little easier.
I’d lose track of time there more often than I’d admit. Hours slipped past without asking for permission. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I didn’t do anything at all. Just sat there with my cappuccino cooling in my hands and let the world soften around me. Some memories don’t need effort; they settle into you naturally. Those afternoons were like that.
Walking through the island felt like wandering through a quieter chapter of life. The trails lined with wildflowers, the cliffs glowing gold when the sun started to dip, the villages so peaceful even the wind seemed to move slowly — everything had a softness to it, as if the island had been made for people who needed to breathe a little more deeply than usual. And somehow, that warm cup in my hand pulled me into the moment each time, grounding me, stitching me into the landscape in a way I still don’t fully understand.
Looking back now, the memories feel like a long, sunlit ribbon — Portsmouth with its lively hum, the Isle of Wight with its calm breath, the mornings washed in sea air, the afternoons that drifted into nowhere, the terraces covered in green, the cafés buzzing with life, and the quiet moments when I didn’t need anything except a hot cup and a view of the water. All of it blends into one feeling: warmth. Not the kind that fades, but the kind that sinks into you and stays.
Maybe that’s why the longing still sits somewhere inside me. It wasn’t just about travel. It wasn’t just about drinking cappuccinos in pretty places. It was something gentler — the way those places softened the edges of life, the way they made the ordinary feel comforting, and the way they gave me space to exist without rushing through anything.
Those days taught me that sometimes life doesn’t need anything dramatic. Sometimes all it takes is a warm cup, a quiet street, a sea breeze, a friendly smile, a ferry ride, or a coastline glowing under afternoon light. Sometimes that’s enough to remind you that life can be beautiful without trying too hard.
Maybe that’s why those memories still tug at me — because they weren’t loud. They were soft and real and quietly perfect in their own way.
One warm sip at a time.
Photos by the author
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