24th January from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Every day on the West Cliff Green has its own story to tell but today is particularly characterless. There is no frost but is cold, grey and damp. Bone marrow cold. The sea is restless and bored. There is no sign of spring, just the winter flowers and tiny fruits of the strawberry trees and the gorse which provides some jollity with its yellow flowers at most times of the year. Leaning on the rail watching the goats I am joined by a dog walker. We marvel how the goats manage to pass though the tangle of bushes without getting their long, sweeping horns caught. We are impressed by the amount of undergrowth they have cleared. We are astonishedby the way they climb right up into the gorse bushes to get to the prickly forage. “Not to my taste.” says the dog walker. “Although it might be all right with some cheese and pickle.” A party of gulls swirl overhead chattering amonst themselves as if undecided about what to do with the day. But later they carry on swirling as they wait for Mick the seagull man under a fingernail of a day old moon in a sunset sky.
From 24th January 2022
The sky is not so uniform grey this afternoon. There are lumps and bumps of darker and lighter cloud. The wind has swung to the East and has a raw, wintery feel to it. Tiny waves fret anxiously at the shoreline. The guys who have been wading up to their waists in the freezing water during the winter storms replacing the groynes have finished their work and begun loading their equipment onto lorries. A bull dozer makes a final push across the beach, smoothing out the sand. It is as though the circus has packed up and is leaving town. A flock of pigeons that has taken centre stage on the short grass, filling their crops for the colder weather to come. A blackbird chacks nervously from a gorse bush. A robin hops nearby and after peering at me decides I am not worth the bother and hops away. A wren carols from the hedge. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Winter #January.
From 24th January 2012
You can never be exactly sure when the darkness thickens into light. Suddenly you can see the edges of the path, the surf ghosting in upon the sand and, by the faintest mist of light on the horizon, you gradually become aware of the immensity of the ocean. Standing in the shelter of a beach hut you realise that time is not an entity to be measured but a process in which we become gradually aware of the universe slipping by and entropy quickening pace. Cold rain is falling steadily as I step out from night into daylight.
