17th January from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
A fearsome overnight frost. Bitterly cold and, although the grass is covered in a crisp icing, the paths are dry so not slippery. Where there are puddles they are sheeted over with thick ice that groans and creaks underfoot until it snaps and shatters satisfyingly. The air is still except for occasional little frosty breaths like the Snow Queen’s enough to freeze Kay’s heart. The sea moves sluggishly up and down the sand. The dark shoulder of the Purbeck Hills is sprinkled with white and the sun only manages a gloomy appearance from behind a veil of white cloud. The crow with the droopy wing is intent on finding breakfast at the path’s edge while the wagtails flit and bounce. Clumps of dead leaves are welded by the frost into stiff brown plates and mats.
From 17th January 2022
The Full moon (The Moon after Yule or the Old Moon in England. Not those fancy American names made up by advertisers) is hard and sharp. The air is so clear that the stars and planets burn brilliantly overhead despite the moonlight and streetlights. The air is bitterly cold with only a very light breath to pinch my cheeks. The sea rustles quietly to itself. The bay is so smooth the lights on the promende mirror back off the water. I can see all the tiny villages along the west side of the Isle of Wight from The Needles to St. Catherine's. The lights from ships way out in the bay are bright and clear. A dredger to the West, cargo ship at anchor off Old Harry and the Conder Car Ferry scurrying for the Harbour Mouth. And just visible far out on the horizon, Linda, a container ship heading down channel for Dublin. We are joined to the world by the sea not separated by it. #Bournemouth #westcliff #winter #january
From 17th January 2021
Midwinter Spring. As T.S.Eliot called it. Of course it isn't spring but it might as well be. The air is crisp but there is real warmth reflected off the glassy sea from the bright sun. New plants are pushing up though the old thatch of grass. Wild Garlic festoons the path edge. The scent of gorse hangs in the air. From the top of a bush a dunnock sings out loud, lifting his head to the blue sky, his sharp beak carving the air into song.
