5th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The sound of the steady drizzle falling through the trees joins with the sighing of the waves to make a single susurration that fills the chilly, windless morning air. A rough sleeper with a small dog has balanced a bottle with clear liquid in it on the fence rail and is holding the attention of a young man making a rolly. He is telling the story of his life and speaks with an educated, uncomplaining voice. The crow with the floppy wing glides across the open ground keeping just clear of a following gull. Another crow takes a more usual command of the beach where two figures are swimming. One of the early toilet cleaners is having a cigarette by his van. “Lovely day.” someone says. “I’m not a duck. “ and after a pause, “Yes, lovely”.
From 5th November 2021
The sharp air has brought a white frost. The sluggish sea seems unable to stir itself. The gulls are far out in the bay surrounding the small fishing boat from Branksome Dene. The sun streams through the dark branches of the pines. In the muffled silence a dried leaf drops with a distinct "tick" on the path in front of me. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Autumn #november
From 5th November 2019
The air before dawn is crisp and chill. The grass is heavy with dew. To the west a single star adorns the still inky darkness. The lights of the Barfleur making its way into port and a cargo ship riding at anchor shine out brilliantly making golden trails on the velvet dark water. Yet to the East the dawn fills the air with the softest pale blue edged with a hint of gold. The water of the bay is mirror smooth reflecting the delicate light. It is disturbed only by the merest ripple of a wave and a tracery of silver pathways. The wave sighs at the water’s edge. A robin sings from a clifftop gorse bush.
From 5th November 2018
I like to walk at night. Something about the pools of light from the streetlights, the stacked yellow lights from the windows of flats and hotels, the distant clump and crackle of fireworks, the red flashing lights of a helicopter out over the bay and the intense pinpoints from the fishing boats: they bring comfort because they say “I am here”. It is the reason and motivation behind all art. It says “I am here” and all these night time sights tell me that someone struck a match and lit the blue touchpaper to say “I am here”. That street light was installed by an electrician. I don’t know his or her name but by the act of joining wires he or she said “I am here”. The lights in the dining room of the hotel says “We are here. We have rooms. We have space at the dining table.” The lonely old person staring from the window of their flat says “I am here”. The same for the helicopter and the fishing boats. That is someone risking their lives, saying “I am here”. And so we are all artists. All beaming out our message of humanity, contributing to the world as it is, leaving our tiny mark on the night
From 5th November 2011
A soft, fresh, grey morning with low cloud and mist fading the cliff tops into the dawn. The gentle breeze carries sound along the beach - the gentle thump and drag of the waves, the hiss and crackle of the retreating shingle, a robin singing bravely from the gorse and a blackbird chip chipping crossly at some disturbance. The Highcliff Hotel rises ghostly on the clifftop like some gothic pile with many secrets. An older man in a red hoodie splashing jogging through the surf stops to say good morning. "Are those your trainers I saw further down?" He gives a thumbs up and splashes on. Apparently Amy Bennett was doing something wicked under the pier last year. There's her name to prove it. Outside the BIC a huddle of navy blue artics and tour buses give me a small pang for the touring life. But not for long. This is where I like to be.
