6th January from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
A fresh, crisp morning, the sun slanting through the trees. The sea shushing restfully. It is warm enough to sit and enjoy the scene. Crows caw, magpies chatter and squirrels play kiss chase among the trees. But by midday the sky is quite grey, a little wind springs up and a few hands full of rain changes the mood of the day instantly.
From 6th January 2022
The canopy of ilex trees forms an almost perfect canopy against the cold, driving, hard rain and the punching wind. As I step out from their shelter into the late afternoon and worst of the gale I am instantly soaked by the icy storm. The surf boils and churns in temper kicking up a mass of white foam, luminous in the darkness. Cruel spotlights stab the beach like muderous toledo stilettos where the guys in orange immersion suits are battling to build the new groynes whilst the tide is favourable. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Winter #January
From 6th January 2016
It's not spring yet but... the wind has dropped and the waves are making a less determined rush up the beach. Most significant, the birds of the West Cliff Choral Society are revving up their voices for that Masterwork of the natural year - The Dawn Chorus (Composer Anon). In the grey of the pre-dawn I could hear soloist blackbirds, robins, dunnock, wrens actually singing out with the usual chorus of tits and finches and wagtails beginning to stretch their syrinxes. It's not a full blown rendition as yet and if we get a cold snap many of these brave little musicians will not make it. But the rest will continue. It's not spring yet but it's coming and it will not be held back.
Out in the bay it's the battle of the Mythologies. The Frigga sailing from Poole head to head with Hercules from Southampton destination Cork.
From 6th January 2014
Sheltering in the doorway of a beach hut. This is madness. Huge breakers, ice cold hail driven before a wild tumult of wind. I've never experienced the elements quite like this. Here comes more hail in bucket loads. The sea is driving up on the promenade.
From 6th January 2012
The air is ice-box chill but an elegant breeze stops frost forming. Brilliant stars are still prickling the dawn. The merest smudge of pale sky away to the South East where the Needles light pulses its routine. Four or five little lights are making their way out of Swanage Bay. Where is the Poole fishing fleet? Its captains still rocking on a sea of dreams? Come on Poole fishermen, all the fish will be gone. On the clifftop I am greeted by a barrage of bird song, robins, dunnocks, a wren, tits, a blackbird. This isn't the dawn chorus but it soon will be. As I look back over my shoulder the sky suddenly lights up with huge splashes of gold, orange and pale green.
