1st April from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth

The sea keeps grumbling away. A big swell is throwing the waves high up on the beach but they are more organised, neater than they have been. From time to time the rain cascades down in big gouts. Everything is covered in drops of moisture. And although the big leaves are growing up wildly, the flowers are, as yet, small and closed away. We now have two flocks of pigeons. Our own fat and sleek wood pigeons and the ones from the town in motley colours and thin and hungry looking. From the gorse the small birds are trying to organise a concert. Robins, blackbirds, wrens, great tits and blue tits and, possibly, a chiff chaff. The first I’ve heard this year. And then the rain comes down again and everyone runs for shelter.

From 1st April 2022

As soon as the bumpy bitter breeze abates and the weak sun peeps through the bullying grey clouds, there is some warmth in the afternoon. The retreating spring tide leaves a series of elliptical pools on the sand which reflect back silver as neat as handbag mirrors. Now the flowing water is making a thousand tiny glittering wavelets as it climbs slowly back. The flower of this spring sems to be the bluebell which is growing upin patches in all sorts of places that they do not usually appear. Whilst they are not in flower yet, they are everywhere on the clifftop and in the longer grass under the trees following the profusion of three sided leeks. Daisies sugar the whole of the stretches of short grass. #bournemouth ##westcliffgreen ##spring #April

From 1st April 2014

A chill wind and a restless sea. The promenade lights like a chain of gold around the bay. The hotels and apartments lit up like great liners lying at anchor. Through the windows lives are being lived. Deserted clifftop paths lit by pools of light. Whilst above pricking the deep navy sky the constellations wink knowingly at me.

Later

Overnight the great cloud of Saharan dust has arrived in Bournemouth. Layer upon layer it's building up into considerable dunes. The only things flourishing are the palms along the promenade which I see are laden with green dates already. Travellers in long robes and scarves around their faces against the sandstorm trudge across the sandy wastes leading strings of swaying hump-backed pack animals on their way from the exotic Eastern parts of the borough. A little group have camped overnight outside overnight tethering their beasts to the pines. The blue smoke from their fire mingles with the interminable red dust. The dunes continue on for mile after mile.