8th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The wind has abated a little but it is still strong enough to howl in the tree-tops, to shake the branches and to send little packets of dried leaves skittering along the paths. The spring tide and wind means that the sea has covered the beach in a lather of foam right up to the promenade. A magpie half hops and half flies across the grass. It is easy to see how, given a windy enough ecological niche, the evolution to flight from ground locomtion is straightforward and obvious. Even ground hugging creatures like human beings are being propelled by the wind in their big, puffy coats.
From 8th November 2019
The forecast says minus one at this time of the morning. But I would put it several degrees above that. There is certainly no frost but there is a stinging breeze. The sea is calm but the small waves land with a distinct sound somewhere between a thump and a slap like a an ancient wheezing boxer trying to regain old glories. It is difficult to know whether the one or two people cycling along the prom, heads down against the chill, are night workers going home or early starters going to prepare breakfast in the less regarded hotels. An elderly man, stiff and upright, runs into the breeze, his white beard over his scarf. The council tractors appear from the distance, they are festooned with search lights pointing north, south, east and west, orange beacons whirling. They pass like small mobile cities from a Terry Pratchett fantasy. Out in the bay there are more mountains of illuminations from ships heading towards the harbour, pilot boat in attendance. Overhead, another mobile village, the overnight flight from Bermuda to Gatwick blinks and twinkles. The cafes have their lights on. Orion is high to the west. And to the East the merest wisp of another dawn.
From 8th November 2015
Continuing my observations about tiny creatures in the gale. Today was a bumble bee happily foraging along the cliff top. These sometimes get blown over from the Continent so perhaps I should have wished him "Bonjour Monsieur Bourdon"
From 8th November 2011
A strange, soft, distant day more reminiscent of September than November. Wet, brown leaves fill the gutters but many trees are still clinging to their tired summer foliage. There seems to be no energy in the people making their way through the light drizzle. The sea is indolent as if it wants no more of the flinging itself about that it was indulging in last week.
