20th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
A quiet, contemplative day. The sea is restful and the sun shines warmly from a blue sky as blocks of clouds allow.
A quiet, contemplative day. The sea is restful and the sun shines warmly from a blue sky as blocks of clouds allow. A crow whirrs from the tree top and a helicopter burbles past. A small child in yellow wellingtons is carrying a pink balloon. An elderly couple pass and by and the string of the ballon becomes attached to the old man’s shoe. He is unaware of this and the balloon bounces along the path after him. The tot toddles on but is unable to reach it. Suddenly the balloon catches on a bramble and burst with a loud pop. At last the infant has the remains of the balloon which he or she examines carefully. He or she does not cry but is deep in contemplation. The father arrives and shows how to put the remans into a waste bin. The child has learnt something about entropy. The air is chilly and most strollers are wearing winter black and brown but the occasional blue, red or yellow anoraks stand out vividly against the bright geen grass. A small white poodle is stalking a squirrel. It stays motionless, paw raised exactly like a proper hunting dog and moves forward in a series of grandmother’s footsteps. Although she has never caught a squirrel in her seven years, she has learnt how to hunt. All knowledge will come in useful one day.
From the 20th November 2019
A spiteful sea claws its way up the beach spitting and snarling. Tiny figures running and cycling along the prom have to dodge gouts of fairy foam driven by a buffeting chill wind. The three quarter old moon peers wanly down from an empty sky but on the horizon the purple bulk of the Purbeck Hills to the West and The Isle of Wight to the East heave themselves out of the darkness. Great ranges of black clouds loom threateningly and a great vicious orange gash tears along the Eastern horizon.
From 20th November 2010
is there such a term as torrential snow, cos thats how it is coming down outside!!
19th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
But as soon as the sun is over the horizon it is cutting through the chill and is soon reflecting its warmth off the placid sea.
The residents of the West Cliff Green have become so used to warm days and nights even at the height of the fierce storms that they’re taken by surprise when the temperature drops below zero in the night. But as soon as the sun is over the horizon it is cutting through the chill and is soon reflecting its warmth off the placid sea. The still air is sharp enough. There is no wind and there is a remarkable stillness to the day. It is deeply quiet and the tranquility is almost palpable. There are plenty of walkers and sitters and all have their coats unbuttoned and they speak with low voices as if in a church. Quiet reigns and the little waves are small and respectful. It is a perfect Autumn day. Squirrels dash about mining the leaf litter for their acorn stores that they can have only buried days ago. A great tit follows from branch to branch just out of reach making a tuneless rattly sound before it swoops low across the path. Suddenly, with the sound of a thousand angry wasps, twenty or thirty jetskis appear from round the pier and begin beating up the surf, zig zagging backwards and forwards across the shallows where people were swimming minutes before. And as soon as the sun heads west by mid afternoon we are reminded of the sharp cold.
From 19th November 2021
Unrelenting, unbroken, homogenous grey overhead with only the smallest gap for the sun to shine through on the Southern horizon. The Autumn has been long and samey with only occasional breaks for a few hours of warm sun some afternoons. But it is definitely chillier today. Trees and bushes are only now getting into full autumn gold and red. The gulls are still in eclipse plumage but the crows have a glossy green and purple sheen to their feathers and the magpies are crisply black and white with a bright blue polish to their wings. Smaller birds are rustling and twittering in the undergrowth maybe preparing themselves for the cold to come. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Autumn #november
18th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The sun shines intensely through the branches of a Scots Pine making, for an instant, the illusion of a Christmas Tree. But it is still too early for such considerations.
The sun shines intensely through the branches of a Scots Pine making, for an instant, the illusion of a Christmas Tree. But it is still too early for such considerations. Despite a very light early morning sprinkling of frost, the sun is warm and, reflecting off the burnished, rippling bay, it becomes quite hot. It is a sort of Frisbee throwing, Tai-chi-ing, sort of morning and those enjoying the sunshine on the benches have their hoodies unzipped and coats thrown off. A thread of white smoke is clear against the dark Purbeck Hills where gorse is being burnt off. There is a pleasure in the still, quiet lull. But by mid day a haze of grey draws across the sun and the temperature drops quickly.
From 18th November 2020
It hasn’t been cold this autumn. We’ve had plenty of storms and gales but there has only been one morning when there was frost on the clifftop. Today a stiff breeze blows in across the bay and up the cliff but it is not at all chilly. The blackberries have been picked clean and most plants are lying low but there are still one or two flowers straggling along the fence. Some species of ragwort and fleabanes that I can’t tell apart. Yarrow heads push up bravely from the short grass. For me they are they the flower of this time of year. When you start looking they are everywhere but yarrow doesn’t form clumps or patches so you might miss the well spaced individuals. And of course, there is the gorse. Bright yellow the whole year through. The grey sea rolls imperturbably on.
17th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Regiments of purple slate coloured clouds march along the horizon and shoulder up against the rising sun. Long streamers of high pink gold cloud radiate out from the east.
The sky is a bright wash of lemon. Regiments of purple slate coloured clouds march along the horizon and shoulder up against the rising sun. Long streamers of high pink gold cloud radiate out from the east. The wind is fresh but gentle. Dog walkers wear blue parkas with hoods covering their ears. They don’t seem to be particularly happy to be out here this morning. The bay is lumpy like meusli. The swell approaches the shore in long ruler straight parallel lines but they break with a rhythmic polite shusssh. A lone figure practises yoga on the flat sand at the tide’s edge. The crow with the droopy wing has found something worth some effort in among the wet grass stems. The Mis-shapen wing is quite a different colour from the rest of its plumage. A chestnut brown against the black. A girl with a black tracksuit has tied her long blond hair back so that it actually flows out like a pony’s tail as she trots along.
From 17th November 2020
A murky grey November morning. A brisk breeze keeps everything alive. Squirrels scuttle through the golden leaf litter loading with the last of the sweet chestnuts and holm oak acorns. The beach is flat and smooth but there is only one lone walker at the tide’s edge. Further down a swimmer braves the surf. A crow struts self importantly on the clifftop. A low drizzly cloud sweeps in across the bay blotting out the bulk of the grey hills beyond.
16th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The cold, vicious rain sweeps across the green in long, grey curtains. The trees rattle and sway.
The cold, vicious rain sweeps across the green in long, grey curtains. The trees rattle and sway. I ask Omar who has taken up residence in the Cliff top shelter if he can keep out of the rain. He assures me he has a friend he can go to. The sea has calmed down from yesterday but it still shows that lazy power that might be a bully looking for a weakness to spring on with hard knuckles and sarcastic jibes. The rain is so heavy that it is impossible to see more than a few metres from the shore. Elderly couples sit in their cars with the engines running and the windows fogged up. They stare at where the sea might be. One or two joggers in shorts and flimsy jackets sprint by. There is an air of concentration in their eyes that betrays nothing outside the present horror. The light is thick and almost impenetratable. By three o’clock the street lights are coming on. The day folds in on itself.
From 16th November 2020
There is the slightest breath of fresh, chill breeze. The lights from distant streetlamps and the flats and hotels twinkle through the bare branches of the trees giving an early festive air. The air has that peculiar browny mauve that comes just before dawn, making everything seem soft and ill defined as it emerges from the darkness. The long straight waves are calmer now than the fury of yesterday’s sea but as it is a spring tide they push high up the beach with a half-hearted roar. Everything seems distant and detached. A party of thirty or forty gulls prefer trampling the cliff top grass for worms rather than anything more taxing out in the bay. A crow, flying low above disturbs them but they only wheel round once and land back where they were. A pair of pied wagtails skitter up the path in front of me. The light slowly changes to pink as the grey slabs of cloud slide imperceptibly aside like tectonic plates to reveal a soft blue sky streaked with gold.
15th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The sea is in a tumult from the shore right out to the horizon in white, steepling alpine peaks as if shouldering through a snowfield.
The inhabitants of the West Cliff Green are used to storms, it is on a Cliff Top after all. But this storm is somehow different; more powerful, angrier. It is, perhaps the direction of the wind, coming straight in across the bay and hitting the cliff with none of its power abated by the hills to the West. The sea is in a tumult from the shore right out to the horizon in white, steepling alpine peaks as if shouldering through a snowfield. These are not the pretty white horses of a summer storm but what the admiralty handbooks describe as a “confused” sea. The waves descend into a white turmoil from far out past the pier as far in as the promenade. In all this it is impossible to see where the sea ends and the land begins. On the cliff top itself the noise is nearly intolerable. The wind in the treetops has risen beyond a roar to a sound that is entirely visceral like a jet engine with afterburners from a few metres away. Small branches are falling. Lakes have formed along the paths. The aerials on the roofs of the tower blocks scream. The pigeons stand, hunched as if in shock. A crow makes no progress, its wings scrabbling to find purchase but is propelled backwards through the air. A dog walker makes the traditional greeting from the depths of his blue anorak: “Lovely day”.
From 15th November 2021
When the sea comes in at an angle to our big curving beach you can hear the wave break start far off and then come closer and closer until it reaches exactly opposite to where your standing. It comes in out of the darkness with a thump and a tumble like a class of baby hippos at a birthday party. The stiff, cold wind blows the clouds away East and the glittering three quarters moon and the planets and stars fill the Western half of the sky. On one of the benches some teenage boys are practising smoking and roll on the grass coughing and choking. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Autumn #November.
From 15th November 2013
The sun glancing off the sea is flooding my room with a vivid lemon light. This is cold weather sun. The Daily Express promises three months of blizzards starting on Wednesday. I may have to retreat to the cupboard under the sink again.
14th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The sky to the east is gold slatted as the straight edges of the purple clouds are polished in anticipation of the sun.
The air is fresh but it is still not cold. Another dew laden dawn. The sky to the east is gold slatted as the straight edges of the purple clouds are polished in anticipation of the sun. A cloud of thirty or so herring gulls mew to each other as they circle overhead before settling on the cliff top. One or two black headed gulls add their harsh calls to the dawn air. A squad of six magpies patrol the grass looking behind every tussock and divot for the gold they are meant to bring. A crow calls out his ownership of the Green from the top of a lamp post. And then the broad polished disc of the sun slides up over the horizon. Perhaps this is the gold the magpies were hunting for. A little wind springs up.
From 14th November 2019
Yesterday, the optician assured me it was still OK for me to drive at night. Tonight, standing on the cliff edge I decided to see just how far my night vision extended. I could see clearly to the bottom of the cliffs. Some old admiralty charts I have mark these as being 90 feet in places, say thirty metres. That means that the curling, booming surf must be about fifty metres. I could see that fine. If I follow the wave edge along I can see the strobe of the Sandbanks Ferry winking sharply. Say, eight kilometres and the pin pricks of light from Studland and the red and green lights in the bay, 12 kilometers. To the East I can see the red glow of the Needles Light (15 Kilometers) and the red warning lights on the TV transmitting towers of Chillerton Down and Rowridge (25 Kilometers) Low down on the horizon but brighter that anything is the brilliant flashing light of St Catherine’s Light (42 Kilometers) and further on those ghostly smudges must be the tops of clouds centred on Mid Channel or even as far as Cherbourg (120 Kilometers). Above my head is the lights of a nine hour flight from Miami (12 kilometers). And beyond that, the sharp silver disc of the Hare Hunters’ Moon (385,000 Kilometers) And the planets (Between 600 million and 1000 million Kilometers) And before the cloud sweeps them away I can just make out Betelgeuse (642.5 Light years) and Rigel (864.3 Light Years) I think that’s good enough to allow me to drive at night.
From 14th November 2016
"Is this Bournemouth?" He said over his shoulder. "Yes, it's Bournemouth." I replied. "Oh goodness, I thought you were my friend following me. We've just driven down from Birmingham." "That's all right," I said. "It's still Bournemouth. It's as far as you can go without getting your feet wet." And he leant on the rail and watched the surf on th beach below. And I thought how lucky they were to come all this way to hear the sea at its best. A rhythmic, soothing wash backwards and forwards. Restful, almost hypnotic. Lovely.
From 14th November 2012
At this damp, grey time of year when autumn aspires to become winter; at this time of day, still dark enough to see the Needles Light but light enough to make out the razor sharp horizon, you are made aware of the liminal nature of this time and this place. The edges of the path grow before your feet, the worn yellow painted edge of the steps and the cliffs themselves transitioning abruptly into the wet air. The sea seems unsure of its limits and grumbles and frets dyspeptically at the shore. And then a sight that causes a literal gasp. A pinprick of intense red light suddenly swells up over the horizon and is sucked up behind the louring cloud. The sun has come and gone for the day.
From 14th November 2011
The gibbous hare-hunter moon is a brilliant silver in the palest of skies. A bank of mist smudges the horizon. I catch low voices and the scent of rollies at a hundred yards on the cheek chill sharp air. It is a dawn of distance; memories of pigeon shooting with my Dad; or watching for Brent geese on the Farlington marshes; walking home through the dawn after an all night fit-up. The sun bursts through the mist a glorious red and a yard across. Towards the west the moon is now bone white.
13th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Grey webs of drops of moisture lined the grass stems that sparkled and shone in the morning sun like tiny zircon necklaces and tiaras.
The stars and planets sparkled from a clear, cloudless sky last night and yet, in the morning, everything was wringing wet. Grey webs of drops of moisture lined the grass stems that sparkled and shone in the morning sun like tiny zircon necklaces and tiaras. The paths glittered like tiny rainbows from the wet stones. And yet this was not a frost but a very heavy dew. Despite the little breath of wind this was a very heavy carpet of moisture. And as the day wore on the temperature rose to that of a summer evening. The choppy waves encouraged the body boarders into the surf. A squirrel sat up with an acorn in his hands and nibbled up and down as if playing a tiny harmonica. But then, as the shadows lengthened the temperature dropped quickly because it is November after all.
From 13th November 2016
There are no hares on the West Cliff but tonight is the hare hunters' moon when the silver light, bright as day would be ideal for pursuing that quarry across the autumn stubble and ploughland. Man's relationship with the hare goes back thousands of years which is why it is treated with respect as a magic animal. The only hunters out tonight are the owls looking for love and that young scavenging fox learning the tricks of the trade. You can follow his progress by the sudden angry clamour of roosting birds and the barking of the dogs as he passes.
From 13th November 2014
The sea is in utter turmoil. Waves undecided whether to break on the beach or just give up and explode into plumes of foam out in the bay. The noise of the confusion is that of a huge machine deafening and unrelenting. The walls of the hut shake. The England under 20 football team saunter by hoods raised. Some of them look at us as though they are glad they only have play football in this.
12th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
On the West Cliff Green the low autumn sun provides vistas, lit in different ways.
The low autumn sun provides vistas, lit in different ways. The view to the sea is vignetted by dark trees. But there are a myriad details picked out entirely at random: shadows across the path, a single leaf, a feather, a rain-sodden blue notbook that says “homework” on the cover. A squirrel runs along a fence top angrily chiding one of the cliff top cats. And despite the low sun, the day is warm enough to swim in the strong waves. And although everyone knows the hammer blow of winter will fall soon enough a bank of three sided leeks pushing through the leaf litter, is ready for spring when their white flowers and pungent odour will enable locals to use them as wild garlic.
From 12th November 2021
It hasn't been cold today. Neither very warm. The sea has been agitated at times but then calm again. The sky has been peculiarly lumpy with big grey wodges of cloud and with the odd blue patch. Occasional almost imperceptible drizzles. Just enough to damp the pavement but not to make puddles. The moon is half way from new to full. But the most brilliant are the three planets, Venus just after sunset and Saturn and Jupiter dodging the clouds and following her through the sky. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Autumn #November
From 12th November 2016
The sea is anything but pretty today. Line after line of stiff necked waves marching in out of the grey distance and hurling themselves at the shore. The sound is of a hoarse sibilant rasp like the villain in a Sunday Tea time BBC2 adaptation of a Dickens novel.
11th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The whole green is somehow encompassed in a bubble of sound. Figures crossing to and fro seem small and distant.
The steady roar of the sea fills the air. Joins with the susurration of the wind in the treetops, the distant gasp of a Boeing 737 taking off for Tenerife, the throb of a volumetric and concrete pumper where a new swimming pool is being constructed in a nearby hotel garden. The whole green is somehow encompassed in a bubble of sound. Figures crossing to and fro seem small and distant. Part of the scene yet divorced from it. It is a single sound snapshot. The flowers on the memorial to DAD have faded and blackened. “Blowy isn’t it?” says someone. A crow follows me along the path keeping pace, flying ahead and waiting. I realise he has spotted my bag and thinks there may be treats inside. I am part of a scene.
From 11th November 2019
I feel like Prospero striding his Magic Isle. The chill, damp air is, indeed, full of strange noises. The steady hiss and thump of the waves. The brisk West wind in the tree tops, throwing startling dark shadows dancing across the street lamps. The big yellow leaves of the sweet chestnuts hit the path with a distinctive echoing slap. On a nearby building site someone drops a pile of something metallic. Electric motors whirr. Bins are tipped into rubbish lorries. An ambulance waits patiently while the paramedics care for someone in distress. Two planes fly far overhead on their way to Gatwick. A robin sings briefly from the fence next to me, then realising I have nothing to contribute, flies off disappointed. The alley to the main road is deserted but dents the darkness with its lights belying the fact that, for many, the day began long ago.
10th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The polished pewter plate of the Hare Hunters’ Moon peers out from the monochrome clouds as evening closes in.
The difficulty in November is finding enough words to describe grey. Where the wind has dried the path, the grey asphalt is made up of a myriad of purple, green and white chips. The soft pigeon grey of the clouds. The greeny-grey of the sea which becomes a sort of yellowy grey as it nears the shore. The charcoal and slate grey of the distant hills and the fine hazy grey of the mist the cloaks the day. A balck and white magpie has some purpose as it fossicks in the long grass and silver grey leaf litter of the holm oak. Then there is an edge of pinky grey as dusk approaches and the very light becomes browny grey. The polished pewter plate of the Hare Hunters’ Moon peers out from the monochrome clouds as evening closes in.
From 10th November 2021
We have not seen the moon for some time now but tonight, there she is, basking in a field of pale clouds, a waxing crescent growing towards the Hare Hunters full moon at the end of the month. She projects a pencil straight golden stripe across the oily water of the bay directly towards me. The cargo vessel Deo Volente, deck lights blazing, drops the pilot at the end of the Swash Channel and makes her way out into the Channel. On the cliff top, voices carry on the still night air. It is warm enough for folk to be sitting out on the steps nodding to passers by. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Autumn #November
From 10th November2018
Having been goaded into a rage by the storms, the sea is not yet settled. It sounds moody and irritable muttering and jittering along the shore. The night air smells damp and green. The grass glistens in the gleam of the streetlights which themselves seem to stand naked and shivering. Cold gusts of clifftop breeze rattle in occasional showers of penny-sized cold rain drops from the bay. The paths and alleyways are deserted save for a woman staring out into the night. Her dog waits placidly at her side. I pull up my hood and hurry back indoors.
From 10th November 2016
A rasping breeze and a busy sea. The hard moon throws deep shadows among the pines but silhouettes the distant hills against a star-powdered sky. The hotels and apartment blocks blaze out bravely against the night.
From 10th November 2011
Dark smudges of cloud against an imperceptibly lightening sky. Jagged slashes of magenta where the sun is rising out of sight. The day progresses from pitch black to light in ten minutes. The music of the sea is different every day. Sometimes brisk and staccato like a Vivaldi concerto, sometimes, grand and stately like a piece of Elgar or a thundering endless roar in the style of Wagner. Today is a continuous series of chords adding in swell one to another as the long waves break along the beach. Today it is Bach.
9th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
But then the yellow of the native oak is yellow and brown in stark contrast to the evergreen background and the sycamore is suddenly bare against the blue sky; the gorse is in flower and autumn is everywhere.
Because the majority of trees and plants are evergreens, the impact of autumn is never so immediate and dramatic on the West Cliff Green as elsewhere. There is always a backdrop of rhodendrons, gorse and strawberry trees against which the many varities of pines and holm oaks flourish. The grass is bright emerald and lush. The signs of autumn are in the weather, the gales, the cold rain and the sun low down on the horizon. Not forgetting the changing wardrobes and gait of the walkers on the cliff top paths, a slightly faster pace, less time spent leaning on the rail and gazing over the bay. The photos and selfies are snapped that little bit quicker. And today the sun is warm and the air fresh and gentle. The waves are less boisterous. But then the yellow of the native oak is yellow and brown in stark contrast to the evergreen background and the sycamore is suddenly bare against the blue sky; the gorse is in flower and autumn is everywhere.
From 9th November 2021
Little lights prickle the hills above Studland. The sky is murky dark except for a smudge of light above the hills which must be the lights of Swanage reflected off the clouds. The sea pulls back into the darkness and pauses and rushes forward to crumple on the sand. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #autumn #November
From 9th November 2019
After a few days of calm and a bright morning with a sharp frost coating the puddles with glass, the storm has returned. The waves are big green lumps topped with a brilliant white crest of ragged foam. Away on the western horizon, however, a brilliant band of golden sky peeps out from under the thick grey clouds. Tossed around by the blustering wind a merlin is being harried and bullied by a pair of crows. Despite the huge difference in size, the tiny hawk is giving a good account of herself, racing and tumbling around the bigger birds. She arrows down across the beaks of the crows causing them to shear off until they close in again. This aerial ballet continues for some minutes as it is carried along in front of the tempest.
From 9th November 2015
Out early looking for signs of badgers but the ever efficient council workmen were there before me clearing the paths of the weekend gale debris. A sparrowhawk weaving low among the bushes with a small entourage of crows and pigeons. It moves so quickly that as it passes it seems like a tiny jet. Toast for breakfast.
From 9th November 2010
A lumpy grey-brown sea thumping against the promenade which is covered by shingle and thick brown swathes of weed. Even the seagullls are carried beyond the rooftops on the gale. The only creatures enjoying this (apart from the occasional photographer) are the pigeons picking delicately through the wrack and oblivious to the spray sweeping over them.
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 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.
7th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The green waves heaving and collapsing onto themselves.
A riotous, raucous wind. little dribbles of rain from time to time. The green waves heaving and collapsing onto themselves. A day like a delegate to a temperance conference at the BIC coming home across the green in the dark early hours. Meanwhile, the Boss of the Clifftop, the Crow, makes no effort to fly from his post where he is keeping on eye on things. He just spreads his wings and lets the wind carry him up and away. Bright yellow splashes in the long brown stalks are flowers of evening primrose and charlock.
From 7th November 2019
One of the reasons the Autumn is so pleasurable is the long, luxurious dawn when it is possible to stand and look and listen without the normal chatter and distractions of the world. Yet, all is not still. The scurrying breeze carries with it the rich mixture of scents from wet leaves, gorse and the tang of salt. Even in the course of a walk the light changes minute by minute from enveloping dark to bright daylight. Bands of purple clouds line the horizon. They are sculptural in their majesty, yet they too, fold and change. Gulls and crows wheel and call before settling on the clifftop grass as their venue of choice for breakfast. And beneath it all, the restless splendour of the sea.
From 7th November 2015
This is the sort of day that reminds me of those sort of childhood mornings when you couldn't wait to get outside and shout at the wind. I don't particularly believe in Ruskin's pathetic fallacy but there is a definite emotional charge, an uplift, in being in the midst of this weather. Everything is in motion, every blade of grass, every bush and tree is rocking and swaying. In the pine groves there is a deep hollow mournful moaning while the holm oak stands echo in a crisp susurration. The sea has given up any pretence of organisation and the waves are marching up the beach in a ragged rabble of foam. The rain and spray is stinging my face when I spot a pair of black eyes watching me from the leaf litter at the base of a bush. It is a wren, no bigger than a fifty pence piece. I marvel that something so tiny should be here in the presence of all this tumult. She stares at me in wonder that any sensible being should be out here at all. So we both turn away to find our breakfasts.
From 7th November 2012
From just outside my window I can see the whole of Poole Bay from Old Harry with the grey shoulder of the Purbeck Hills beyond to Hengistbury Head. The sea is that peculiar colour somewhere between steel and bottle green. 7 - no 9 small boats dot the water. One of them,hauling its lines, is cloaked with a mob of gulls. On the far horizon a container ship bulky and ugly passes. Just then the sun spills down a brilliant splash of platinum light against the grey cast by what weather watchers call the Eyes of God.
From 7th November 2009
The night is like a giant bowl of Rice Krispies
6th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Here on the West Cliff, despite the wind and rain, someone has manged to set off a few Roman Candles in defiance of the weather.
The day is as damp as a small girl’s eyelashes when the firework party has been cancelled . The wind is brisk and reassuring as a Mother wiping her tears and promising a trip to MacDonalds. Here on the West Cliff, despite the wind and rain, someone has manged to set off a few Roman Candles in defiance of the weather. Briefly, the sun makes an appearance from behind the heavy, slate coloured clouds. The goats, unconcerned contort their necks up at unfeasible angles to capture the young shoots of gorse. But suddenly the wind flings hands full of sharp rain in from the bay. Walkers hurry their pace and umbrellas bloom like summer flowers. But a stream of visitors in sharp camel coats are determined to get their money’s worth of the sea side and, shoulders hunched, they are going to finish their post brunch exercise.
From 6th November 2021
This morning it was bitterly cold, glove weather, but it is a degree or two warmer now. A small wind has sprung up, the sea is thrashing about. The sky is like a vast dark tent suspended from the firmament so that we can see out to a strip of orange sky all the way round the horizon. And then the rain begins to patter down. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Autumn #november
From 6th November 2019
The air before dawn is crisp and chill. The grass is heavy with dew. To the west a single star adorns the still inky darkness. The lights of the Barfleur making its way into port and a cargo ship riding at anchor shine out brilliantly making golden trails on the velvet dark water. Yet to the East the dawn fills the air with the softest pale blue edged with a hint of gold. The water of the bay is mirror smooth reflecting the delicate light. It is disturbed only by the merest ripple of a wave and a tracery of silver pathways. The wave sighs at the water’s edge. A robin sings from a clifftop gorse bush.
From 6th November 2015
It's still late autumn rather than early winter. The sweet chestnut leaves on the path are a deep litter of gold and orange but on the trees many are still green. From the clifftop I can see the sea boiling and clawing its way up the beach. The wind blows sudden squalls of cold rain in my face. Only one swimmer braving the surf today and further out in the bay a little coaster butts through the whitecaps. Amidst the wet brown bracken, little clumps of teasles sway brightly. This is the place to be and this is the time to be here.
From 6th November 2014
The wind is buffeting the windows. The swollen tide roars and pounds at the beach. Six days ago I was swimming.
From 6th November 2011
t's too early even for dog walkers and joggers. Council workers are the only ones setting out on their rounds, headlights from their trucks making bright pools in the darkness along the promenade. The sea provides a gently reassurance. It is a time for contmplation rather than observation. How long bfore the grand cliff top hotels have crumbled away? A thousand years? The city itself with its pretty gardens?Ten thousand? In a hundred thousand temporary effects like global warming will have come and gone and we will be cycling back through ice ages. In a million, another species will have taken mankind's place. And all that will be constant. The sea, the wind, and the desire for growing things to grow.
5th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Another crow takes a more usual command of the beach where two figures are swimming.
The sound of the steady drizzle falling through the trees joins with the sighing of the waves to make a single susurration that fills the chilly, windless morning air. A rough sleeper with a small dog has balanced a bottle with clear liquid in it on the fence rail and is holding the attention of a young man making a rolly. He is telling the story of his life and speaks with an educated, uncomplaining voice. The crow with the floppy wing glides across the open ground keeping just clear of a following gull. Another crow takes a more usual command of the beach where two figures are swimming. One of the early toilet cleaners is having a cigarette by his van. “Lovely day.” someone says. “I’m not a duck. “ and after a pause, “Yes, lovely”.
From 5th November 2021
The sharp air has brought a white frost. The sluggish sea seems unable to stir itself. The gulls are far out in the bay surrounding the small fishing boat from Branksome Dene. The sun streams through the dark branches of the pines. In the muffled silence a dried leaf drops with a distinct "tick" on the path in front of me. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Autumn #november
From 5th November 2019
The air before dawn is crisp and chill. The grass is heavy with dew. To the west a single star adorns the still inky darkness. The lights of the Barfleur making its way into port and a cargo ship riding at anchor shine out brilliantly making golden trails on the velvet dark water. Yet to the East the dawn fills the air with the softest pale blue edged with a hint of gold. The water of the bay is mirror smooth reflecting the delicate light. It is disturbed only by the merest ripple of a wave and a tracery of silver pathways. The wave sighs at the water’s edge. A robin sings from a clifftop gorse bush.
From 5th November 2018
I like to walk at night. Something about the pools of light from the streetlights, the stacked yellow lights from the windows of flats and hotels, the distant clump and crackle of fireworks, the red flashing lights of a helicopter out over the bay and the intense pinpoints from the fishing boats: they bring comfort because they say “I am here”. It is the reason and motivation behind all art. It says “I am here” and all these night time sights tell me that someone struck a match and lit the blue touchpaper to say “I am here”. That street light was installed by an electrician. I don’t know his or her name but by the act of joining wires he or she said “I am here”. The lights in the dining room of the hotel says “We are here. We have rooms. We have space at the dining table.” The lonely old person staring from the window of their flat says “I am here”. The same for the helicopter and the fishing boats. That is someone risking their lives, saying “I am here”. And so we are all artists. All beaming out our message of humanity, contributing to the world as it is, leaving our tiny mark on the night
From 5th November 2011
A soft, fresh, grey morning with low cloud and mist fading the cliff tops into the dawn. The gentle breeze carries sound along the beach - the gentle thump and drag of the waves, the hiss and crackle of the retreating shingle, a robin singing bravely from the gorse and a blackbird chip chipping crossly at some disturbance. The Highcliff Hotel rises ghostly on the clifftop like some gothic pile with many secrets. An older man in a red hoodie splashing jogging through the surf stops to say good morning. "Are those your trainers I saw further down?" He gives a thumbs up and splashes on. Apparently Amy Bennett was doing something wicked under the pier last year. There's her name to prove it. Outside the BIC a huddle of navy blue artics and tour buses give me a small pang for the touring life. But not for long. This is where I like to be.
4th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The waves are playfully boisterous and the water is warm enough for a November swim.
A faultless blue sky. A warm sun dappling along the paths beneath the trees. The grass is lush and green. The waves are playfully boisterous and the water is warm enough for a November swim. But there is an edge to the gentle breeze to remind the unwary that autumn is well underway. But by mid day, little tufts of white cloud trail out into high streaks and at lower altitudes bigger clouds begin to form. The afternoon has a certain sort of silence underlined by the the rythmic shusssh of the waves. The voices of the gulls come from somewhere away in the direction of the town.
From 4th November 2021
The cold air is chivvied along by a snappy little breeze. The sea shuffles backwards and forwards on the sand. The workers are digging deep into the beach building the new groynes and are wading knee deep in sea water at the bottom of the excavation. The sky is a clear blue except for a wide purple cummerbund of cloud. Below that, the sun is a brilliant lemon yellow so bright that it is impossible to look into it. A couple walking just in front of me are nearly invisible shades only outlined by an intense yellow halo of light. A crow caws loudly from the top of a pine tree and swoops down to see off a small dog. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Autumn #November
From 4th November 2020
I have often described the liminal – the time and space after and the time and space before. This dawn feels like that. A fresh crisp air and a faint covering of frost on the grass – the first I’ve seen this autumn. The hard, silver moon, just after full, hangs at the top of a pale blue sky. For a moment there is a wash of primrose and palest pink as the sun edges up behind a band of jagged purple edged with brilliant red and orange but it fades within minutes. There are still pools of dark under the trees where a small band of figures chatter excitedly before beginning their session of physical jerks. Further round the path there are a few bottles and paper cups from a last desperate gathering before the lockdown. Out on the bay tiny intense lights show where boats are fishing although it is still too dark to make out the boats themselves against the gently rising sea. The siren of one of our cruise ships booms softly three times. A crow calls.
3rd November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
One of the West Cliff goats poses for the camera.
A dreary, damp, drizzly, dismal day. Pigeons and gulls are spread out across the Green pecking half-heartedly at the wet grass. The paths are lined with a wet mulch or brown and yellow leaves. The wagtails have found something hilarious and and are bouncing up and down, hardly able to contain their amusement. One of the goats poses for the camera. But the wind has dropped to a whisper and the sea is much less exercised than it has been. And, to the West, a thin strip of pale blue that may herald a brighter afternoon.
From 3rd November 2021
The palest green sky edged with purple clouds and a slight mist so difficult to see where the sky ends and the rumpled silver sea begins. The waves rustle like kitchen foil. The air is cold and a deep dew covers the grass. Robins and wrens trill from the bushes. A blackbird chacks as it flies up from the path. A strip of candy pink to the east and then the the sun bursts above the clouds in a blistering orange gold flash. A lone gull circles mourning its lost soul. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Autumn #november
From 3rd November 2013
When you live near the sea you can take the big beast for granted. Even when it's wild you stand on the safety of the cliff top and enjoy the spectacle. And you take it for granted that people who set out to enjoy it will be safe and well because the beast lives only a few yards from your front door and you are quite used to its presence. And then it turns in an instant and bites and bites hard and we realise how much we rely on the men and women of the volunteer services who will put themselves in peril of their own lives for our well being. And when it goes badly these ordinary people, these dentists and hair dressers and accountants, the ones we know at the bar of the Red Lion, have to carry with them a burden we will never know or understand. Thank you.
2nd November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Aided by the wind and the rain, the areas under the holm oaks are deep in acorns. They have been washed into piles and drifts by the rain.
Every day as we get further into Autumn and the days get a little shorter, the sun gets lower in the sky, the clouds get a little greyer, the wind gets a little snappier, the waves hurl white foam further up the beach and the rain gets a little sharper, we spend less time on the Green. But this autumn there is something special to see. Every five to ten years there is a sudden bonanza of acorns from the oak trees. This outpouring is called a Mast and this year is one. Aided by the wind and the rain, the areas under the holm oaks are deep in acorns. They have been washed into piles and drifts by the rain. They are so copious that the squirrels can’t cope with this sudden wealth and they are beginning to dissolve away un eaten or uncollected. And there are still masses on the trees yet to fall.. There are many theories of why this happens but there does seem to be a natural cycle of a few years of famine and then one of plenty. It may be that this year happened to coincide with the drought over the summer and the trees put everything into preserving the species for the future in their little time capsules.
And the breeze becomes a strong wind, becomes a gale, becomes a howling hooley hurling pigeons around the sky as if fired from artillery pieces.
From 2nd November 2021
The sun was as warm as mid july. The blue sky was decorated with a few pale brush strokes of cloud and a fringe of puffy cumuls across the horizon. The waves were big but orderly, waiting politely for the preceding one to finish lathering itself on the sand before advancing. The water was tingly cold #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Autumn #November
From 2nd November 2016
The air is as sharp as a butcher's cleaver. For the first time in months the clifftop benches are empty. Usually there is at least one young couple with arms wound inexpertly round each other, too embarrassed to look each other in the eye, afraid the other will know what they are thinking. Or an elderly pair with fingers arthritically intertwined staring at the horizon and thinking, perhaps, of that long ago honeymoon when they saw The Tremeloes at The Wintergarden. Towards the end there is a bench occupied by a single man twisted in on himself smoking something sweet and further up a group of lads with nowhere else to go. "All right?" "All right, Mate." And it is.
From 2nd November 2013
A sudden squall of rain gusts in from the cliff edge like a sodden grey blanket on a washing line. The bent pine tree bows and sways as if it is trying to shake off the dirty weather. Walkers rush for cover and umbrellas turn inside out.
Later
Suddenly the sun bursts out from the grey clouds and floods the West Cliff with warm apricot light. The grass dazzles from the raindrops. Beautiful April weather. What's that? Oh...
From 2nd November 2011
The playful wind makes the dawn walker step out more briskly. Bushes, pines and palms are shaken like a terrier's stick. The green grey waves jump up and curl over. But the sky has broken cloud with the gold and pink of a good day coming. Back indoors the blinds rattle, joining in the fun.
1st November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Lightning snaps across the Purbeck Hills, thunder rumbles and the deluge, when it comes. is hard and bitter.
For a brief moment the sun struggles through the slabs of charcoal clouds and casts a half-hearted shadow before the walkers. But then it is obscured as abruptly as if a window cleaner has smeared a bucket of suds across it. Squalls of misty rain race across the bay. The waves are jagged andchase in a frenzy far up the beach. The wind growls in the tree tops that bend before the gale. Pigeons huddle on the ground round the cliff top shelter. Crows are tossed around like the burnt remains of paperback books. Lightning snaps across the Purbeck Hills, thunder rumbles and the deluge, when it comes. is hard and bitter.
From 1st November 2021
The air is cold and you unconsciously pull your jacket just a little tighter around your shoulders. But the sky is a stew of grey cloud and blue sky with the sun making occasional gracious appearances. The waves are puckered but polished smooth as old pewter. A crow manages to exhibit its own sense of superiority despite its slightly ragged appearance. Definitely an eccentric owner of this estate. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Autumn #November
From 1st November 2012
Significantly scary mass of black murk looming up from the horizon and advancing over the sea. We are doomed. Doomed...