7th February from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Another cold night with the grass at dawn white with frost. But the sun rises into a clear blue sky with a veil of white mist over the bay. The bright light throws dark barcodes of shadows on the path. A little breeze from the south orders the glittering waves into gently rhythmic slaps on the sand. The small path-side flowers are beginning to appear: Snow drops, yellow groundsel, already making little seed heads, the dark pink of the red dead nettle, speedwell with it’s tiny striped flowers in blue and white like a delicate piece of delft ware, and rich purple violets. A pair of magpies strut and preen in their neat black and white outfits. The wagtails are ever present, ever amusing.
From 7th February 2022
The colour of the afternoon is pale and washed out under a dull grey sky. A briskcold and dry wind hurries walkers along the paths. The sea hisses and grumbles as it crawls up the beach in little waves. A small circle of gulls wheel and wail half heartedly. The lights are coming on in the hotels and apartments. #Bournemouth #westcliffgreen #winter #february
From 7th February 2021
A vicious wind from the east has brought down one of the pines across the path. Pines do not root deep and this year, top heavy with cones, three have been felled by the elements tearing easily out of the sandy soil, exposing the flat plate of roots. Trees are living things and they come to the end of their lives quite naturally. This one I should judge to be no more than fifty or sixty years. These pines never get much beyond eighty years even in the most benign circumstances and here, bent by the wind as they grow, they are unlikely to reach that age except in the sheltered chines. But as individuals come and go, there will still be a grove of trees here into the future. New ones taking the place of the old ones, naturally or planted by the council. Look at old photographs and you will not see the same trees. They come they go. This is a mutable place, always changing, always staying the same. Just like the sea; Huge breakers on Friday, flat calm yesterday and now restless as a hungry animal today. And on the cliff top, a tiny clump of celandines where there was none before.
From 7th February 2016
Imogen is one mad lady. Where the wind is funnelled past the tall buildings she laid into me fists flying, pummelling the breath out of me so that I had to drag myself past hanging on to the fence. Under the pines she was howling and roaring until she shredded herself into a tumult of rage through the gorse bushes making the fence and wires sing and shout with angry song.
