7th October from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
A brisk wind makes the sea roar and the tree tops sigh. It bumps the big grey clouds across the sky. Pigeons rummage in the shelter of the trees. A great tit flutters acros a gap struggling against the breeze. Fairy rings are beginning to appear everywhere a tree has grown in the past. The ones on the short grass are, perhaps, honey fungus, the bane of gardeners but all part of the natural order and cycle of things; helping trees to absorb nutrients whilst they are living and then breaking their remains down into the soil when the host is felled.
From 7th October 2021
Magical wonders today. A thick mist at dawn that turned the walk along the clifftop into a truly immersive event. Dog walkers and wanderers appeared and disappeared. Later we discovered a colony of Firebugs on the mallow plants. These bright red and black insects are latecomers to these shores and adore the seeds of the mallow that they cling to tenaciously and will not let go even when given a hefty shake. This evening, coming home in the dark, I could see a mass of elfin lights weaving and bobbing through the trees. A breathtaking sight as they streamed past me. An evening fitness class all wearing head torches that went on to make a fairy ring on the short grass and do, whatever it is fitness classes like to do. #Bournemouth #westcliff #autumn
From 7th October 2020
The edges of the morning are smudged and indeterminate. Even the horizon, usually a true and precise delineator, is hazy and imprecise. The distant hills have a water colour blur. The sun is shining brightly from a blue sky peppered with mackerel scales. But it is the quality of the light that tells us that it is autumn. Everything has a golden, pinkish quality that adds to the day’s imprecision. I know there is a proper scientific reason, the sun being low in the sky shines through a thicker part of the atmosphere and the brilliant blues are filtered out leaving us with this air of conditionality. Ifs and buts and maybes abound. The year moves on, uncertain and wavering hoping, like Mr Micawber, that something will turn up.
