20th February from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The breeze is sandpaper sharp and the sky is endlessly grey. The waves chunter at the shore. But on the cliff face all is scurry and busyness. Brush cutters and saws churr and whine. A pile of cut branches are building up beside the path. Half a dozen council operatives are clearing the scrub the goats have not been able to smooth out and a pile of black bin bags show where years of litter, bottles, cartons and footballs have been swept up. Someone has distributed red and yellow tulips further along the clifftop and further still an opened lollipop has been woven into the mesh of the fence. Daffodills are nearly ready to burst out.
From 20th February 2022
The sea is unruly and as noisy as a bunch of teenagers on a bus. Grey swags of low cloud and mist curtain off the horizon. Both the Purbeck Hills and the Isle of Wight have disappeared into the murk. It’s not cold but the wind is rising. A group of pigeons are making little headway into the wind. The gulls are wheeling happily above. Little groups of Sunday walkers huddle on the beach. Blown sand and small dogs chasing round their ankles.
From 20th February 2021
A grey, washed out impressionistic morning. Not unpleasant but somehow at a remove from sharp reality. A sense of detachment pervades. The air is fresh and the sea rushes backwards and forwards as if not quite sure what it should be doing. Jenny Wren lands on the path in front of me and surveys me with a bright black eye , head cocked to one side. Wrens are some of the most common birds here in the UK but we seldom see them, apart from a quick impression as they dart across the path boot high. But today Jenny gives me a moment of her time. She is tiny, fat and homely. Dickens would use her for a model for one of his bustling, wise matronly women, Mrs Fezziwig perhaps. But she has already decided I am not worth bothering with and she is off to busy herself about her chores.
