5th April from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth

Nippery snap goes Jarvis’ long metal claw as he fossicks about for every single butt end discarded around the bench. Jarvis, the old pirate, grizzled beard and headscarf. He used to play in a punk band. “We played the O2 once.” But now his rage against the machine has abated and he does his bit to hold back the tide of darkness from his little white Council van. He says people find it difficult to believe he had another life once. Didn’t we all. We discuss the names of the crows. He calls the one with the poorly wing “Tiny” and always tries to save a few scraps for him when the others aren’t looking. Jarvis tells the tale of another crow who ended up with a broken leg after a fight with some gulls. “More violence here than in Boscombe,” he observes as pigeons crows and gulls fight over the rubbish bags he is stowing away. He carefully smoothes another black bin bag into the rubbsh bin. And drives off. The sea is soothing under a grey sky. The air is filled with drizzle. A single pigeon feather is left on the path. The West Cliff is fit for another day because of Pirates like Jarvis.

From 5th April 2022

It's that liminal, transitional time between evening and night. The sky is pale but painted across with great exuberant swooshes of charcoal and purple clouds. It's light enough to see the hills and headland that define our bay. Yet it's dark enough for the lights to edge the view with jewel like brightness. The three lighthouses to the East, Hurst Point, The Needles and St Catherine's and the red dotted television transmitter towers. And to the West the the winking green and red markers for the channel leading into the harbour. The moon. a fat crescent, scuds in and out of the clouds. The sea is a restful white noise and the breeze is fresh and cheerful. Walkers on the path in front of me are silhouetted against the street lights, with haloes of golden light that makes them look like angels on their evening off. #bournemouth #westcliffgreen #spring #april

From 5th April 2010

The gulls sound sad and forlorn tonight. Presumably because the visitors have gone home and there are no more chips.