20th August
The playful breeze bowls the elderly gentlemen’s hats along the path. The elderly gentlemen hobble after them. The wind hums in the pine branches and rattles the still green leaves of the deciduous trees. The gulls circle and then zoom stiff winged low over the cliff. Pigeons are also enjoying the breeze, rising and falling on the air in roller coaster fun. The crows are beginning to look sleek again in their new outfits.The sun is strong and it is warm despite the breeze. Sunbathers are lying out enjoying the freedom of a Saturday afternoon and listening to the football on headphones. Towards the sun, the bay glints like crumpled silver foil while to the East the colour is deep blue green and mysterious. Purple cloud shadows slide across the waters. The Dorset Belle streams into the afternoon light leaving a straight white wake.
From August 20th 2021
A heavy, oppressive day despite the sharp breeze. The sun is lurking behind a thick grey blanket only peering out with one eye from time to time before snuggling back under the bedclothes. There are plenty of juvenile robins but I saw an adult just now, ragged and well into its moult but with a beakful of worms and grubs indicating it was having a go at raising yet another family. Take a rest, Soldier.
From August 20th 2018
When you live in a seaside town you acquire something of an ambivalent attitude to Gulls. Every child knows how to make the iconic elongated m shaped gull mark in the blue of the sky that says “sea-side”. The mournful distant cries add to the sound of lapping wavelets to make the background of any radio play set in a small fishing harbour. Yes, sea gulls are a necessity at the sea-side. Yet, we get enraged by the way they tear apart rubbish bin bags distributing unbelievable quantities of filth up and down the street; and by the way they approach unwary picnic-ers with a malevolent eye that precedes a dash for the cheese sandwich you are just about to pop in your mouth. As a student of (human) language, I find gulls fascinating. They have an enormous vocabulary of sounds and calls that seem to form a rich language. Not only the long, drawn out wails but the short chattering, a harsh guttural cooing and a sort of bark. What’s more, these calls are modulated up and down the scale. I hesitate to say they’re musical – anything but. Then there is the syntax and the way the calls are used in lengthy conversations. Squabbles, repetitions of the same sound over and over again: “It’s mine. “No it’s not” “Yes it is” “No it’s not” “ ’Tis” “ ‘Tisn’t” “ ‘Tis” “ ‘Tisn’t” and so on. Sometimes a continuous plaintive sob from an abandoned juvenile. Sometimes a massive gossiping session when a crowd assembles waiting for the tide to turn. The only thing gulls can’t do is quiet. I suppose fortissimo is a necessity when trying to keep in touch when out in the Atlantic gales of winter but when they are standing screaming on my window ledge at five in the morning I find my self resorting to a rather more basic human form of language.
From August 20th 2016
This is the weather the sailboarders like And so do I The wind comes slicing across the bay Making the dare-devils fly. The waves are pummelling the sands Under a ragged sky. This is the weather the kite surfers like And so do I.
From August 20th 2015
It's my contention that it wouldn't be raining if those heliocopters didn't keep stirring up the clouds.
