6th September from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth

After the storms last night with the monsoon like downpours and continuous lightning out on the bay, the morning sky is full of grey, grumbling clouds driven along by a stiff breeze that shakes the tree branches and whistles in the aerials on the flats. Deep grooves are worn in the beach where the deluge has cascaded own the chines. From time to time the sun manages a brief appearance and the tarmac on the path dries out quickly.

The wind has produced the very first prickly cases of the sweet chestnut. Probaly a little while before they ripen properly and start to fall of their own accord.

Someone from the council has fixed the rail on the steep steps leading down to the beach. One of the crows has a droopy wing. The other crows are still allowing it to be near them and it is still able to fly enough to get up onto a post out of most harm’s way. Watch this space for developments. A surprising sight is where a rose, laden with orange hips has pushed through the mass of brambles previously unnoticed.

From 6th September 2021

The rising sun casts long shadows ahead of me on the path. The air is still fresh but the temperature is warming quickly. An autumn mist softens the horizon. the sea is almost flat calm except for that glitter and shiver as the ripples catch the light. For some reason or other, one of the West Cliff Wanderers is wearing a shaggy orange wig. A little group is sheltering in the shade of a low pine tree. The wanderers wave as I pass. The one in the wig seems to think it behoves him to speak in French “Bonjour, mon ami” He shouts. “Comment ca va?”
Ca va, bien merci.” I shout back “Et toi?”
But that seems to have exhausted our Francophone abilities. He takes off the orange wig and passes to one of the others. Who decides not to pick up the baton of internationalism and settles back to doze.