5th December from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth

The chill wind is snarky and harrying, chasing walkers along and quickly away. The unmistakable smell of winter is thick in the air, dead leaves, heavy pine scent, the salt of the sea. And where the foliage and undergrowth have died back there is the shape of the land beneath. The cliffs along here have been quarried and dug away over the years. Once this was an almost industrial landscape where landowners dug for the minerals hidden in the layers of the cliffs and revealed by the chelybeate springs which give the cliffs their distinctive red staining from the iron salts they contain. But there were even greater prizes to be found here. The iron salts contained Copperas or Green Vitiriol used as a fixative in dying and as an ink. But there was also aluminium salt known simply as “alum” also used in the cloth dying trade as a mordant. The cliffs were hacked about and quarries opened in the Chines which became known as the Alum Chines. The names Durley Chine and Alum Chine were used interchangeably on old maps. These minerals were carted to works in Poole and Boscombe but sadly, the great wealth promised never materialised and these quarries were left to become a charming wild part of a holiday town. But this part of Poole Bay was once considered one of the founding places of the chemical industry. How different things might have been.

From 5th December 2021

Bitterly cold with a sharp breeze making it feel colder. The grey clouds are unmoving. It is the sort of day when you huddle inside and are cheered by the human need to brighten the world with Christmas lights and menorahs. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Winter #december

From 5th December 2020

Since the early hours the rain has been rattling at my windows. I can see it streaming down the outside of the panes lit by the streetlight outside like rivers of diamonds. Outside the wind and rain together are as hard and spiteful as barbed wire. Anything not secured tight grumbles and bangs in the turmoil. The white surf writhes out of the darkness of the bay. The trees moan and thrash and rivulets race down the path ahead of me joining into streams and wide puddles. The lamps make tunnels of silver light through the trees. I am glad to be going up the steps again. It is a storm to be enjoyed from inside with a cup of coffee to cheer.