29th June from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth

For a brief moment the sun breaks through the rolling clouds and lights up the Barfleur away on the horizon on its way to Cherbourg. Then the beam swings across and picks up the brilliant white chalk stacks of Ballard Point and Old Harry. The sea is mirror smooth from the clifftop but closer to the surface is made up of thousands of tiny ripples created by the fresh wind. The day is made up of small details. The rings on a sawn off branch of a pine, a plastic carrier bag, a family of six magpies (six for gold) clustering round breakfast on the ground and a gorgeously plumaged jay darting among the branches. A squirrel poses briefly with a nut in hand. Pigeons coo, passing some message from one to another.

From 29th June 2022

Pigeons don't do much on the West Cliff Green except coo and eat. And a bit of energetic hows-yer-father in the tree tops. Today one is balanced precariously in a thicket of charlock eating the seeds with the enthusiasm of Billy Bunter in a tuck shop. But our wood pigeons always seem to be neat and well turned out unlike their raggedy urban cousins. Their sleek pink-grey feathers are set off by their beautiful blue purple necks and crisp white collars. The sky is pigeon grey and the strong wind is driving the waves into a sort of half-hearted frenzy. The bigger crows look at the pigeons disdainfully. A women's keep fit class seem to exercise mostly with big bungee cords that could usefully launch a glider. The pigeons coo. #bournemouth #westcliffgreen #june #summer

From 29th June 2021

It is four o'clock in the morning and still dark. Water is falling straight down from the sky in great Olympic sized swimming pool gouts and torrents. Someone stands in the street singing. What it is they are singing I can't tell. A strange, mournful ululation. He stands there for a little while then moves off up the road. I suppose, when caught in such deluge there is nothing else to do but sing.

Later

The pale green sea is almost flat calm this evening. Just a restless frill of surf at the tide's edge. From the topmost branch of a tall cypress a bird is singing its heart out in defiance of the dark clouds rolling in. It can only be a Mistle Thrush, it's voice loud and clear and doing exactly what its more familiar name of Storm Cock demands of it.