18th December from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth

The cold grey drizzle increases during the morning into an unceasing deluge. Rain water collects in the hollows and grows from puddles into ponds and on into lakes. The wind is still chill and blustery although it is coming from the south. The sea is broken and fretful and has an oily sheen to it. Gulls and crows are all hunkered down. Everywhere is plain wet and, unsurprisingly, no-one is making use of the benches. The only signs of enjoyment are with the wagtails who, seemingly oblivious of the weather, hop and bob with no-one to disturb them.

From 18th December 2021

The moon is as hard and sharp and polished as a newly minted fivepence piece hanging in a navy blue sky. To the west Jupiter is still bright. As I am looking a meteor streaks across it with a fiery trail lasting, maybe, a tenth of a second. The sea shuffles and grumbles like an old man who has been asked to move up and let someone else sit near the fire. The wind is cold tonight from the North East. A girl clings to the clifftop rail as I pass. She has been out learning to roller skate every night for the past week or two. "You're getting better." I say. "Yes, I'm trying." she says clinging on grimly. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #December #Winter.

18th December 2019

An intoxicating wake-up sharp breeze. A steel green sea raking in under a sky grey and mauve mottled like an old lady’s legs or the soft downy breast of a pigeon. A couple of crows are thrown out of the pinetops by the wind chuckling as they go.

Later

The rain is hurling itself horizontally across the streetlamp beam in a continuous spray of silver bullets. It rattles against the windows. In the darkness the parked cars seem to hunch down and the occasional walker crosses the pool of light curling in on themselves. The pretty white lights on a small Christmas Tree twinkle out bravely across the street. I can only think of those who don’t have the comfort of shelter that I do.

18th December 2013

The tempest is goading the surf into a mad tarantella of spit and spume. The noise is almost unbearable - a continual, continuous crashing rush underscored with that hair raising bass wailing. I tried to get down to the clifftop but I was driven back by the elemental forces that have the world to themselves tonight.

Later

Crag Hall where I live is a solid red brick edifice built to withstand several centuries' winter clifftop gales. It has robust modern double glazing. But tonight I can hear the walls fighting the wind that is thumping and buffeting and occasionally vibrating the whole building.