28th February from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
A great shelf of cloud stretching right across from south west to north east so that the sky is divided sharply in two with clear blue sky on one side and thick cloud to the other. When the sun appears through the cloud it is warm but there is still a sneaking cold wind keeping everything honest. The sea humps up into long swells the crash onto the beach with a roar. Someone has picked the daffodills but there is a dense patch of celandines on the opposite side of the path that makes up along with the bank of violets.
From 28th February 2022
A fine, steady rain from a flat tin-plate sky. The wind is from the south; not as cold or as strong as in the past few days but strong enough to drift the rain across the West Cliff and soak into clothes. The grey green sea rushes on in its laboured way. Crows sit hunched against the weather on their look out posts. A fat pigeon flutters up to a fence post, misses its mark and tumbles off down the cliff pretending that's exactly what it meant to do. The coats of the goats are thick and weatherproof and the rain runs off in big drops. The goats themselves are busy at work among the brambles. A couple of visitors from Wales fall into conversation about the goats at Llandudno. I show them where Sandbanks is in the distant murk. They want to know if harry Rednapp still lives there. And I tell them how difficult it is to learn Welsh. They laugh and continue on their rain soaked holiday. #Bournemouth #westcliffgreen #springisonitsway #February #goats
From 28th February 2021
The sun slants in bright and clear, renewing everything with a pale straw light and casting long, dark shadows. The sky is still untroubled by clouds as it has been for a couple of days now. But there is a sharp chill wind and there is an icing of frost in the shadows and pockets. A small family huddle on the beach, coats buttoned up listening to the reassuring lapping of the surf. I exchange nods with the Council Litter Man who is chasing the rubbish that the gulls have strewn across the path and say "Thank You". A silent cyclist passes and disappears into the glare of the sunrise.
From 28th February 2020
The ferocity of the storm on the West Cliff is dictated by the direction it comes in from across the bay. Today it is head on and the squalls race up the cliff with a slap on the face of the freezing needles of rain. The noise of the sea is a continuous sibilant roar that I have heard before from the blast furnaces of steel works in the North. But this is Dante's last circle of hell. The breath of this beast is intensely cold.
