28th March from the West C;iff Green, Bournemouth
The forecast said light winds and drizzle but in between the short gaps between the torrential, slanting downpours, the wind had whipped itself into a significant gale. Walkers have to make a determined effort as they head for the sea. Under they relentless grey sky the sea had whipped itself into what is called a confused state with the wave churning into a white melee for hundreds of metres off shore. Two fat wood pigeons were hunkered down in the lee of a holm oak whilst the gulls screamed in delight overhead. Every year The Architecture department of an East London University come down to the beach to practise the art of surveying. Rows of yellow and blue flags were set out across the green and groups of earnest looking students and bored lecturers cluster round the levels and reflectors on orange tripods. Hieroglyphics are marked on the path in yellow chalk. Dealing with such elemental weather must be all part of what they need to cope with in their career.
From 28th March 2022
A soft evening. Warmer than it has been. The paths are empty. The sea keeps up it's restful tempo but then is chivvied along by a small wind that hurries me homeward. Drops of rain start to patter and it's raining quite hard by the time I reach my front door.
From 28th March 2019
The air is crisp and sweet as a cox's orange pippin tonight. The small waves are having a low conversation with the beach. Passers by in ones and twos, emerge into the pools of light on the promenade and disappear again into the darkness. A crowd of youngsters have a fire going and are dancing and laughing. Others are using up energy by doing strange gyrations under the cruel eyes of personal trainers. Out in the bay a Chinook is prowling up and down doing … but shh I'm not at liberty to say... whatever it is the SBS do between tea time and lights out. In one of the hotels a balcony door thumps shut and a light springs on. I stand on tiptoe trying to see what people in hotels get up to. Reading Proust or J.P. Sartre I should imagine.
From 28th March 2018
The Beast from the East's naughty kid sister may be pinching my ears but the birds of the West Cliff have decided there's no point hanging about and they must get on with the business of the year. The fading spring evening is full of the song of robins, Jenny wrens, dunnocks, blackbirds, thrushes giving their syrinxes a thrashing molto fortissimo. And then, in the brief time it takes for me to emerge from the trees, the evening light cross fades with the silver moonlight and all falls silent except for the restless murmur of the waves on the sand.
From 28th March 2012
There is only one word to describe the sea this morning - blue. An almost luminous blue stretching away to a delicately tinted pink sky. The twisted pine tree, black in silhouette against the blue is suddenly splashed with bright orange as the sun clambers up over the horizon.
Later
Another fabulous August day. The sea is blue under an azure sky. The sun is beating down warmly on the sand where children play. I shall have another paddle later on. This summer holiday goes on and on…
From 28th March 2011
Greater spotted woodpecker drumming in the trees behind the flats and clearly heard above Monday morning traffic. Yaffle yaffling hysterically. Blackbird, tits, chaffinch, dunnock. Even a flycatcher in the bushes. Yep, spring in the City of Sin by the Sea
From 28th March 2010
A delicate dove grey mist cossets the hill tops. It traces through the traceries of the tree tops, The road is polished silver in the rain and the cold raindrops refresh tired eyes. A beautiful evening.
