16th March from the Westcliff Green, Bournemouth
The sea is steep and jagged, propelled on by a stiff southerly breeze. The sky is covered by a flat, slate grey cloud except for the part over the bay where there is a gash of blue with streaks white. For a moment the sun peers through and it’s suddenly warm. Gulls wheel overhead and pigeons peck at the grass. The noise of the surf overwhelms all othr sounds including the song of the birds. People walking in the shelter of the trees are bowed into the wind like Lowry’s Matchstick men.
From 16th March 2022
I've mentioned before how difficult I find it to capture the sounds of the surf in words. Whatever I try it can sound cliche'ed and dead. Even more difficult is the character of the sea itself. The waves change their style from minute to minute and by the time I have stumbled upon some descriptive phrases, they have moved on to something quite different. It's all down to the complicated interplay of the wind, the state of the tide and storms far out in the Atlantic and funneling their energy up Channel. When I set out just now, the little waves at slack water were rattling away quite peacefully, but on my second lap of the Green, there was a distinct boom and urgency about them as the tide began to flow. On the cliff top I counted 28 wood pigeons in one flock and several smaller groups. What are they doing here? Blackbirds and thrushes are well into full song and the green finches have added all sorts of warbles to their repertoire. The rain is steady and relentless and moisture drips from the tree canopy above. The Arborists have finally cut away the broken branch that was hanging like the sword of Damocles above unwary walkers but for some reason they have left it where it came down right in the middle of the path. Some sort of tribute to the storms, perhaps. #bournemouth #westcliffgreen #spring #March #waves #
From 16th March 2021
The sky is flat and grey and even but high with a promise of dissolving to blue. The air is fresh as a face flannel and little curls of breeze whisk around from time to time. The sea is calm and even. And the beach is clean and crisp and even. Even the birds seem subdued and respectful as I pass. A dunnock flies onto a bramble to look at me closer. Decides I am of little use so flies off. The sun is skulking there somewhere.
Later
The sky is now a single wash of colour from zenith to horizon. Navy through cerulean to a blue as pale as a linnet's eggshell before fading into primrose, gold and deep orange. Stark black silhouettes of the trees look exactly as though they are cut from black paper. The air is crystal clear with lights as bright from The Isle of Wight to Studland. And the sea breathes gently on the sand. A single sliver of waxing moon hangs in the west as delicate as a Princess' toenail clipping *. The first two stars appear in the darkening firmament. They are Sirius and Regulus. The cliff top is alive with dozens of hawking fluttering bats. *Image courtesy of Holly Rowena Cooper
