10th December from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The sky is silvery blue and the horizon is decorated with a frieze of white billowing clouds.
It is fortunate that there has been no rain recently. Despite the intense frost, there are very few places to slip on the paths. Instead, every little scrap of gravel is coated with a fine rime that sparkles beneath the walkers’ feet. Crystals of ice that have melted and refrozen over night have slipped down from the roof of the Shelter to make a little treasure trove on the step. The air is pinching but still. The sea is flat clam and decorated with little boats silhouetted in the glare of the sun reflected off the mirror smooth surface. The sky is silvery blue and the horizon is decorated with a frieze of white billowing clouds. A female greenfinch starts out of a bush and weaves her way between branches in a characteristic rolling flight. A pigeon coos.
From 10th December 2021
The silver blue, corrugated, cross-hatched sea reflects the cloudless sky. Parallel lines of the swell rise up and sink down lethergically. As the sun dips towards the horizon , long golden beams reach through the trees and illuminate everything they touch with a warm afternoon light. But the air is bitingly cold. The big yellow eacavator demolishing the Hotel Riviera nibbles away at the upper floors whilst the orange one delicately picks up tiny laths and small pieces of board from the rubble heap and deposit them onto the wood pile. The wagtails bob and skitter about the path whilst an excited party of gulls and crows surround a lady throwing crusts for them. #Bournemouth #westcliff #winter #december
From 10th December 2019
A hard, stinging icy rain driven by a blusterous, bullying breeze (actually it's a devilish wind but thought you might appreciate the alliteration). The sea is white and churning. Four or five crows pull at a patch of bare ground in the lee of a gorse bush. They skulk off at my approach. I am the only living creature out here on the vivid green, watery clifftop. And even I'm going in now.
9th December from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
A vivid slash of magenta and orange across the eastern sky between the banks of louring purple clouds.
The heavy frost crunches underfoot. A vivid slash of magenta and orange across the eastern sky between the banks of louring purple clouds. The sea whispers to itself and far out on the bay the bright lights of the fishing boats show where little knots of humanity ply their trade. A vicious little breeze drops the temperature ever lower and a gull crosses above, wailing in the bitter air. The benches sparkle with their coating of rime in the street lamps orange glow. But from somewhere a pigeon coos as if it is already spring.
From 9th December 2021
Swathes of fine rain drift across the street lights. The sky is uniform and seems low and oppressive. To the North it reflects the glow of the town. Out over the bay the sea and sky are enveloped in inky darkness. Distant hazy lights may be a tanker passing up channel. The surf looms white out of the darkness onto the beach with a continuous soft roar. Then it begins to rain in earnest, the big thundery drops bouncing above the dark puddles like jewels. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #winter #december
From 9th December 2019
The sun is beaming down with some intensity from an unblemished pale blue sky. No sign of the gale we were promised but a stiffish breeze is razor sharp on my skin. The sea is well ordered with enormous green waves heaping up out in the bay then moving steadily inshore in an unbroken line until the tops begin to curl over and the breeze whips the white caps into a fine spray. These are big waves, well spread out that land with a satisfying thump. Half a dozen pigeons luxuriate on the green grass of the clifftop. A fine Monday Morning.
From 9th December 2010
a gold leaf pathway across the sea - straight to me.
8th December from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The sea is almost dead calm and shimmers like silver lame under the clear blue sky.
The grass is heavy with white ice crystals. Even at mid-day the brown leaves at the side of the path are thickly sugared with frost. The only creatures venturing out are squirrels and the incorrigible wagtails performing their antics as if quite unaware of the intense cold that is keeping everyone else at home. The sea is almost dead calm and shimmers like silver lame under the clear blue sky. The air remains ice-box chilled all day. But by the afternoon, the brilliant golden light and the vivid green of the grass makes it one of the most stunningly beautiful days of the year.
From 8th December 2021
The three planets - Jupiter, Saturn, Venus (reading from left to right) are strung out equidistant apart along what appears to be a straight line. The waxing crescent moon hangs below like Cinderella's glass slipper hung from a washing line. The sky is sharp and clear and a cold little wind sends you hurrying along the cliff top. The retreating sea leaves long silver fingers on the darkening sand. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #winter #december
From 8th December 2012
Swimming in the frosty dawn air. The mist hanging over the water. The sun rising lemon yellow out of the sea. Then a brisk walk back along the clifftop, the grass still powdered with icing sugar
7th December from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Every little view between the bushes or the prospect along a path is waiting for the drama to occur.
Voices carry on the still air. Dialogues just out of hearing. The sea rustles like an impatient audience ready for the curtain to rise. The sharp, strong light illuminates the Green beautifully like a stage set. Every little view between the bushes or the prospect along a path is waiting for the drama to occur. Every empty seat is waiting for the play to begin. A robin, it’s song carrying clear across the clifftop begins the overture.
From 7th December 2021
Living on the cliff edge as we do, we get used to windy weather. Whether it's the gentle zephyrs of summer or howling March Gales, there are very few days when the air is quite still. So the bushes and trees are sculpted by the wind and lean at awkward angles such that a bit of a push might have them over. And they do fall from time to time but mostly when they're weakened by age or a bit of fungus. On a day like today with the storm raging I can't help hurrying through the trees. A few sizeable branches have fallen and a lot of twigs and old leaves but nothing out of the ordinary. The cold rain is diven hard by the rain and the sea is boiling white. Crows sitting along the fence only have to spread their wings a little way and the gale picks them up and whirls them away with no effort on their part at all. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #winter #december
From 7th December 2020
There’s nothing that can be said about fog that Dickens didn’t say in Chapter 1 of Bleak House. The mist softens and makes mysterious every dark shape. Bushes drip with moisture. Beyond the cliff edge there is nothing. A grey wall. I can hear the mournful swash and rush of the surf and the distant discorporate voices of the spirit gulls that inhabit that empty place. It reminds me of a great unpainted backcloth framed by monochrome trees. Streetlamps hang like fuzzy orange balls in mid air. Early morning joggers appear and disappear. A blackbird chip chip chips a warning whilst a pigeon, the very voice of summer, coos breathily bravely until it is swallowed by the fog.
6th December from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
A row of black headed gulls in winter plumage sit along the rails moving up one at a time as someone approaches.
A bitterly cold wind but the sky is clear and the low sun strikes through the trees picking out bright splashes of colour here and there. The leaf litter is pockmarked with the little scrapes the squirrels have been making looking for treasure. A row of black headed gulls in winter plumage sit along the rails moving up one at a time as someone approaches. One of the scots pines is alive with the twittering of gold finches outcompeting a robin nearby. The wagtails have perfected their clown routines so that, as well as their running, bobbing dance at ground level they suddenly fling themselves into midair, hang there wings scrabbling for a second or two before plunging earthwards in a comical parody of a kestrel.
From 6th December 2021
Oh my goodness. The three planets Jupiter, Saturn and, brightest of all, Venus, hanging in the South and West evening sky and all pointing to the crescent moon. Worth putting your boots on and nipping out for. The rich scent of damp leaves fills the air. From the garden of one of the blocks a fox barks on and on to attract a mate. The sea has returned to a soothing gentleness. Late evening walkers huddle in the pools of light cast by the street lights to exchange pleasantries. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #December #Winter
From 6th December 2012
The jack up drilling rig with it's attendant tugs is still loitering out on the grey waters of the bay like a bunch of penniless lads hanging round the doorway of a kebab shop.
From 6th December 2009
A huge rainstorm. Great smoking torrents sweeping out of the blackness across the road. Wipers barely coping.
The wind roaring through the pine tops and howling along the wires makes an oddly comforting sound
Coming home past streams of walkers in boots and arctic gear with mountainous rucksacks and walking poles jostling with joggers in shorts and t.shirts and little water bottles. Previous generations would have made the same stroll after church wearing sunday best suits with the ladies picking up their skirts to avoid the worst puddles.
5th December from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Once this was an almost industrial landscape where landowners dug for the minerals hidden in the layers of the cliffs and revealed by the chelybeate springs which give the cliffs their distinctive red staining from the iron salts they contain.
The chill wind is snarky and harrying, chasing walkers along and quickly away. The unmistakable smell of winter is thick in the air, dead leaves, heavy pine scent, the salt of the sea. And where the foliage and undergrowth have died back there is the shape of the land beneath. The cliffs along here have been quarried and dug away over the years. Once this was an almost industrial landscape where landowners dug for the minerals hidden in the layers of the cliffs and revealed by the chelybeate springs which give the cliffs their distinctive red staining from the iron salts they contain. But there were even greater prizes to be found here. The iron salts contained Copperas or Green Vitiriol used as a fixative in dying and as an ink. But there was also aluminium salt known simply as “alum” also used in the cloth dying trade as a mordant. The cliffs were hacked about and quarries opened in the Chines which became known as the Alum Chines. The names Durley Chine and Alum Chine were used interchangeably on old maps. These minerals were carted to works in Poole and Boscombe but sadly, the great wealth promised never materialised and these quarries were left to become a charming wild part of a holiday town. But this part of Poole Bay was once considered one of the founding places of the chemical industry. How different things might have been.
From 5th December 2021
Bitterly cold with a sharp breeze making it feel colder. The grey clouds are unmoving. It is the sort of day when you huddle inside and are cheered by the human need to brighten the world with Christmas lights and menorahs. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Winter #december
From 5th December 2020
Since the early hours the rain has been rattling at my windows. I can see it streaming down the outside of the panes lit by the streetlight outside like rivers of diamonds. Outside the wind and rain together are as hard and spiteful as barbed wire. Anything not secured tight grumbles and bangs in the turmoil. The white surf writhes out of the darkness of the bay. The trees moan and thrash and rivulets race down the path ahead of me joining into streams and wide puddles. The lamps make tunnels of silver light through the trees. I am glad to be going up the steps again. It is a storm to be enjoyed from inside with a cup of coffee to cheer.
4th December from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Where the grassy areas have been left unmown there is a cornucopia of seed heads of teasels, wild carrots, docks not to mention the thick piles of holm oak acorns and sweet chestnuts.
A bitter, knife sharp wind from the North and East. The gulls look distinctly uncomfortable sitting on the grass. They are not feeding but sitting together in a crowd. They clearly know something of the coming weather out to sea. The green grey waves curl onto the shore. I think they know something too. Don’t you? The green is busy, though, with all varieties of walkers, from serious hikers in anoraks and gaiters carrying heavy rucksacks, to the dog walkers out for as brief as time as they can. And the sunday morning horizon gazers. Where the grassy areas have been left unmown there is a cornucopia of seed heads of teasels, wild carrots, docks not to mention the thick piles of holm oak acorns and sweet chestnuts. The birds and small animals will not be feeling hungry yet. And in the bare patches there are masses of worm casts, ideal hunting for blackbirds and gulls should they need to.
From 4th December 2021
The light goes out of the afternoon. Just a brillian sky to the West framed by the black silhouettes of the pines and decorated with purple flat top storm clouds. The sea has spurred itself into action and crisp waves are crunching on the beach. The wind is raw and bitter. In the gloom, the man who feeds the Crows and talks to them of many things is surrounded by a ghostly halo of gulls circling mournfully. The brilliance of Jupiter lights the sky to the South West. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #december #winter
From 4th December 2020
A pin sharp dawn. To the South East a slash of pale blue sky is set with the brilliant solitaire of Venus as she climbs up towards the rolling black and purple banks of clouds. Tiny lights of fishing boats prickle the steel grey waters of the bay. Further out the silhouettes of our four estranged cruise liners decked with their rows of lights look somehow magnificent and pathetic at once. Edwardian Dowagers surveying a world, all previous certainties crushed. The black whale backs of the hills of Purbeck glide to the South West. Unconcerned Blackbirds hop and peck on the path ahead.
3rd December from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The colours of summer clothes have gone and it is all black and brown with hoodies up,
The rude wind bustling in from the North and East presages colder weather to come. The sea grumbles as if being woken too early on a cold morning.Walkers hurry along with shoulders hunched and heads down. The colours of summer clothes have gone and it is all black and brown with hoodies up, The odd pink woolly hat worn by a lady and an orange scarf gives any sign of brightness. The gulls stand in the same manner, shoulders hunched and heads lowered, preferring to hunker down on the grass not bothering to look for breakfast.
From 3rd December 2021
A dull, grey, damp day. The sun peering balefully through the murk from time to time and gleaming dully off the glassy sea. The waves slump wearily onto the shore and from time time drizzle carries on the breeze. A young gull tries to grab a mouthful of food from a crow that is carefully dunking it in a puddle. The crow looks at it meaningfully and the gull slouches off. As darkness falls red green and blue hurtle about the bushes. Three small dogs with glowing collars bring a little cheer to the day. #Bournemouth #westcliff #december #winter
From 3rd December 2010
It's extraordinary how the snow world becomes a sound world. Distant sounds are deadened and the focus is on the nearby. The crunch squeak of boots in the snow, the pink pink of a chaffinch in the yew hedge and the sound of one's own breathing. When you reach the main road do you become aware that the sound of traffic is almost entirely made up of the swoosh of tyres.
2nd December from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Where the sun is able to shine though weakly it makes rays and picks out a single tree and makes its golden leaves shimmer glow.
The breeze is as sharp as a cat’s claws and as cold as her soul. The sky is an intense blue but where it’s not covered over in quilts and rolls of grey and white like a badly made bed. The sea shivers and wrinkles where a fishing boat circles and drifts with the tide. The little waves are quiet but restless. Spiders’ webs decorate the gorse bushes with their delicate filigree. Where the sun is able to shine though weakly it makes rays and picks out a single tree and makes its golden leaves shimmer glow. Robins sing from almost every branch it seems.
From 2nd December 2021
The sky is shimmering sheer blue. Unsullied by clouds from horizon the horizon. The sun is low at midday and glares off the water which sparkles like silver tissue lame. The air is bitterly cold but people are eating their sandwiches on the benches and some are even stretched out on the grass. A pair of wagtails scurry along the path not stopping to do their customary bobbing and nodding. #Bournemouth #westcliff #december #winter
From 2nd December 2011
The sun pours honey over the whole scene in front of me. The trees nod their heads in delight. Even the sea wrinkles with delicious pleasure.
1st December from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
bove the low clouds to the east the streaks and stripes of bright yellow and gold show where the sun is out of bed but still out of sight.
The air is sharp. The mist softens the outlines of the trees and swirls along the clifftop. The gulls wail and wheel. The sea curls comfortably on the shore. The sky directly above is clear but the mist obscures the horizon. Above the low clouds to the east the streaks and stripes of bright yellow and gold show where the sun is out of bed but still out of sight. The grass is covered in a thick white carpet of dew. Magpies saunter with the insouciance of ownership. Dog walkers appear out of the mist, nod as they pass and then they are erased from existence. Cobwebs on the gorse are heavy with diamond like drops of dew. And, at last, the sun shows its face coyly through the mist.
From 1st December 2021
The sky is clear and blue decorated with tufts of white and grey clouds. There's a nippy brisk wind and the sea is rippled but glassy like an ancient window pane which has seen a lot of the world. #bournemouth #westcliff #winter #december
From 1st December 2011
The wind has died down but the sea is still boiling. Wads of foam clump together into fantastic shapes: little islands, evanescent many tower'd Camelots, pink in the dawn that are scuttled away on the tide or melt away on the sand. A huge bank of grey cloud to the South and East crawls down behind the horizon and the lemon sun breaks through.
30th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
A narrow strip of golden sky intervenes abruptly between the sombre grey cloud and the ruler sharp, steel grey horizon.
Tiny speckles of drizzle fill the air from time to time. It’s a quiet day. The sea rustles gently on the beach. Someone has created a flambeau from a pine branch and propped it against a lamp post. A statement about… something. A narrow strip of golden sky intervenes abruptly between the sombre grey cloud and the ruler sharp, steel grey horizon. Mist hangs in the trees. A fresh breeze hides on every corner, ready to make itself known to the walker. Pigeons busy themselves about the branches of the bare trees. Wagtails jump and turn acrobatically. The big red and white Search and Rescue Helicopter buzzes across the bay and disappears into the curtain of mist hanging above the Purbeck Hills.
From 30th November 2021
A quilted sky of graphite, purple and lemon. A tiny slivver of brightness near the horizon makes a a thin trail of silver across the sea. The wind is getting up but it's not cold. Not as cold as it has been ovr the last few days. The incoming tide is propelled gently onto the beach with a slight swell. Magpies are staking out a possible source of supper. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #November #winter
From 30th November 2018
Couldn't be more different. T-shirt weather. Coffee on in the beach hut. Doze in the warm sun.
From 30th November 2012
I'd like to place on record my appreciation for the hard work of all those involved in the Durley Gardens Shoutathon. This daily long distance event (up to 45 minutes) is held between the hours of 4.00 am and 5.00 am and is obviously a follow up to the summer's Olympic sprint events. This morning I would dearly have loved to join the cause from my bedroom window but I was unsure which charity was being helped. Presumably one for the terminally hard of hearing.
From 30th November 2010
A blizzard is raging in Bournemouth, where's my scarf? Perhaps I've been overstating the snow in Bournemuff angle. More a light dusting of dandruff on the shoulders of the town.
29th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
A single, flat topped fungus grows up beside the path. It has a faint pink glow to its top.
A flat, cold, grey morning. A thin mist wreathes around the buildings and the tops of the trees. It’s as coldas it has been. Fingers and nose pinch. A single gold leaf flutters down from one of the sweet chestnuts where a branch has broken off over night. The sea washes backwards and forwards aimlessly. Breath hangs in the damp air in front of walkers. The broken brown fronds of bracken drip with moisture. One or two pigeons and gulls peck at the wet grass in a desultory manner. A single, flat topped fungus grows up beside the path. It has a faint pink glow to its top. One of the workman from the Riviera building site is taking his break in the clifftop shelter. He wishes they had started building earlier so he ould have enjoyed more sunshine and the view. The water is calm enough for a swim and one or two people are taking the opportunity, but the nippy air must make getting in and out a bit off-putting. A green finch startles out of a bush and whisks along the clifftop. A jay in its pink and blue and black and white harlequin costume hops up from the path and glides off down the cliff.
From 29th November 2020
As the dawn brightens beyond the pine trees, the cold intensifies. It's well below zero but the air is still and dry so there is only a thin layer of frost. But it covers everything, grass, bushes, benches, fence rails evenly with a grey sheen. The sea is still with only the slightest swell disturbing its surface. The birds are up and about trying to find breakfast. The pigeons are poking about in the leaf litter along side the squirrels. Occasional little skirmishes break out. A wren flashes across the path ahead of my feet almost too quick to see. Yesterday I saw a chiff chaff looking bewildered and confused and obviously hungry. Although most of them clear off to sunnier climes in September, we also get overwintering birds from further north. This one had clearly been carried here on the northerly air and certainly looked travel weary. But I didn't spot him or her today. Good luck. The pale blue eastern sky is splashed with streaks of orange and mauve clouds criss crossed with a delicate silver net of contrails. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Winter #November
From 29th November 2018
The grass and benches on the clifftop are heavy with moisture. A grey bank of foggy cloud rolls out across the bay and despite the cold, insistent wind, the air among the pines seems strangely dead and still. There is just the distant grumble of the surf on the shore. People come here to contemplate the view and there is always a bunch of flowers plastic tied somewhere along the fence. Toady’s offering is already drooping and browning at the edges rainsoaked and forlorn. Yet, this is the most invigorating time of the year. The fact that darkness continues well into the morning shows that the year is turning. That things are changing. It must be flattening to live in a place where the days are regular and the sunshine is constant. Today’s uplift is provided by a glorious piece of graffiti in blue and purple and orange. Someone stepped out of the shadows to say “I was here”.
28th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
A fly with gorgeous blue wings and glittering eyes settles on the rugged pink, green and brown bark of a pine trunk.
Autumn is the time for seeing things. Shapes, colours, even getting a good look at the sky. The summer softens and smooths everything. There are flowers and birds to look at but in the autumn and winter there is the underlying skeleton of the world. The shapes and colours of the bark on the trees are clearly visible now that the undergrowth has died back. The shape leaves take as they clump and mulch on the grass. An exciting, dynamic time. The wind blows and the sea roars. And on the bare branches of a gorse bush there is the figure of a wren hopping about and while another wren carols away. Its voice so much bigger than seems possible from such a tiny bird. A fly with gorgeous blue wings and glittering eyes settles on the rugged pink, green and brown bark of a pine trunk.
From 28th November 2018
It's some years since I've seen any real sign of badgers on the West Cliff: some scrapes on trees that might have been used as a claw sharpening post and some scrapes in the damp earth that might have been Brock rootling for delicious grubs and bulbs. Sadly, The West Cliff is now a favourite place for dog walkers and badgers and dogs do not get on, so I thought he had packed his traps and was off. But tonight I met him on the path, a juvenile, I think, keeping low against the hedge and out of the weather. Sadly I was upwind of him and as soon as he pinged me he turned and scuttled off into the darkness. (NB Badgers can be female, of course, but Brock is a generic name so I hope you will forgive me.)
Later
The great grey green greasy channel rollers, crests already ragged and torn like white lace, are rising up to begin breaking far off the beach so that for at least a hundred metres the sea is a wild cauldron of boiling white water. Even though we are only a quarter of an hour away from low water, the surf is scouring right up the beach to the promenade. The wind clamour is competing with the continuous single bull-roar of the sea. One or two crows are thrown about like scraps of burnt paper on the cliff top. Whilst another hops lugubriously on the wet grass and complains to me about the weather.
From 28th November 2017
Rattling Bones
The rattling bones of the old year
Will not lie down
Will not lie down
One last dance under a hard moon
Out on the town
Out on the town
One last mocking sarabande
In a moth eaten gown
Moth eaten gown.
Yet Calando dolente she must lie down
In leaf frosted snow
In leaf frosted snow
Her rattling bones in music unborn
Echoing down
Echoing down
27th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Although it’s not raining, everything is damp and dripping wet. The grass is vibrant green. It’s enjoying this late warm autumn.
The gulls are in good voice today, both the wailing of the herring gulls and the raspy croak of the black headed gulls. Although it’s not raining, everything is damp and dripping wet. The grass is vibrant green. It’s enjoying this late warm autumn. A mist obscures the bay. A small fishing boat seems suspended in midair as its impossible to see where sea and and sky begin and end.The last signs of the fire earlier in the year, the blackened stumps of bushes and small trees gradually disappear beneath the leaf litter.On the beach, small knots of people meet up. They are surrounded by dogs. The dogs romp in the surf. One man claps his hands and calls to his dog. The dog ignores him and continues romping. Gradually the group dissolves. The man is left alone clapping and calling to his dog. The dog romps on and on and on.
From 27th November 2021
The gale is raw and blustery but, surprisingly, the sea is almost flat calm. But if you look closely you can see that the wind is rippling the water out from the beach into the bay giving a strange, reticulated, almost moire effect. The tattered clouds scud across the sky letting the sun peep through from time to time but, to the North, big clots of black are forming and headed this way. Where the bins have been overturned, the gulls are having a fine time and enjoying the fact that they don't have to battle the wind as everything they need is on the footpath. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #November #Winter.
From 27th November 2011
Grey ragged clouds driven by the storm bunch and tear. The hills on Purbeck dip in and out of sight and the long breakers smash into the groynes with a flurry of white foam. The sand is chased along the promenade making pirouettes and veils. Even up on the West Cliff I'll need to keep the windows closed or else everything will be covered with a layer of fine sand.
26th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
A kestrel hangs on the blast its wings barely fluttering at the edges as it concentrates on something in the gorse below.
It’s impossible to describe the colours of the tumbling clouds in words. From pristine white to dove, to stone, to slate, to charcoal. And the darker masses edged with lighter colours. And where they pull apart the sun shines weakly from the grey blue heavens. The waves are dark grey and disorganised. A broken chop edged and flecked in white. A soft mist hangs across the bay and everything is without definition. The tree trunks, nearly bare of leaves, are muted to match everything else.Only the undergrowth still retains some colour. The wind is hurried and pushes aside anything in its way. Cold rain spits and frets. A kestrel hangs on the blast its wings barely fluttering at the edges as it concentrates on something in the gorse below.
From 26th November 2018
Although the hare-hunters' Moon has passed full, tonight it is as bright as a searchlight, casting deep black shadows among the trees whilst in the open I can clearly see across the bay to the shapes of the Purbeck Hills. Tiny lights wink from a distant container ship as it glides across the horizon and a steady glow shows where a tanker rides at anchor. Under my feet the grass has the glitter and crunch of the sharp frost. The sky is clear enough for me to make out the constellations even above the street lights and, low down in the Western sky, I can easily pick out the red glow of Mars. I pause for a moment to salute the ingenuity and co-operation of the men and women who, in the last hour, have landed a ship there. I wonder that here on earth venal, ignorant politicians are only capable of drawing battle lines.
25th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Where the sun strikes through the trees it produces shadows dark and mysterious and throws the rugged bark of the pines into deep, dramatic relief.
A boisterous, fresh breeze. The sky is a sheer, unsullied blue. The sun, low on the horizon is strong and warm. The waves are strictly regimented into ruler straight rows and crash onto the beach with a satisfying thump. Where the sun strikes through the trees it produces shadows dark and mysterious and throws the rugged bark of the pines into deep, dramatic relief. All is light and shadow. Magpies hop from branch to branch and wagtails pop up and down as in an arcade game.
From 25th November 2021
I'm always on the lookout for those signs that says one season has faded into another. I'm pretty sure today is winter. The air is cold and there is a nasty, sneeping wind. The sky is that clear blue that only occurs on the coldest of days. The sun is almost horizontal during daylight hours and glares balefully off the mirror flat sea so that it is difficult to look south across the bay at any time. Even the magpies seem to feel the change of season and shuffle about at the bottom of the hedgerow shoulders hunched against the chill. Most animals and birds are keeping out of sight and even the squirrels seem to have a desperation about the way they hunt for their stashes in the leaf litter. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #winter #November
From 25th November 2011
The air is fresh but there's no bite in it yet. The dawn sky is copper green streaked with vermillion and orange. The long autumn continues. As I walk along beside the beach the promenade lights wink out one by one and I feel like a sort of reverse Michael Jackson. The surfers are already disporting themselves like young seals in th low waves.
24th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The long lines of old man breakers rush towards the shore, white hair flying out behind them
The blustering boisterous wind pushes the trees this way and that until they seem uncertain about which way to go next. The leaves of the holm oaks are ghostly pale on the undersides so that they seem to flash first green then white in the gale. The long lines of old man breakers rush towards the shore white hair flying out behind them until they crash down on the beach in a maelstrom of hair, beards and false teeth like a thousand Father Christmases crashing into a snow drift and destroying the hopes of children everywhere. The early sun tries to push through the grey mist hung heavy on the horizon and briefly gleams dully off the flat we sand.
From 24th November 2021
The evening air is razor sharp . It's only a degree or two above freezing but it is chilling to the bone. There is a heavy dew and a slight veil of mist. The sea breathes in and out so quietly that you can hear the distant swish of tyres on the road above it. The yellow lights in the apartments and hotel rooms give the impression of warmth. Two girls are sat on a bench in the darkness. Their voices carry right across the green. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Autumn #november
From 24th November 2019
A fresh, eager breeze slaps me round my cheeks and buffets me along playfully. I can hear the excited squeals of delight as two early morning swimmers bob and plunge in the frisking, wrinkled waves. The surf creates a great concert hall rush of sound that accompanies my walk. The sky is clear apart from the great ragged blobs of battleship grey and purple clouds. Everyone I meet says “Hi.” Everyone smiles.
From 24th November 2015
It is only a few steps from the empty street lamps and the rush of traffic until you are deep among the pine trees. The silence is broken only by the mournful imploring of a tawny owl for a mate. Her call remains unanswered here and you can follow her as she makes he way away down the cliff edge. Then from the silence you hear the first wave. It is suddenly loud enough to startle but as you move from out of the pines it is there steady and regular like a great steam engine at idle or the whole world breathing.
From 24th November 2011
The dawn is almost operatic. Great splashes of magenta and crimson rising behind purple bruise coloured clouds and over a dark sea. I can see the working lights of three, maybe four, fishing boats spread out across the whole of Poole Bay from the Swash to Old Harry to Hengistbury Head. As the light thickens i can see the Durley Chine fisherman standing in his rowing boat following his lines back from the pier. By the time I have reached the clifftop the day has softened to its usual pale blue, gold and grey.
23rd November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
And the oak tree, now divested of leaves, has taken on another green canopy - a ragged tent or awning of some sort. It does not look convincing.
The clifftop seats always look wistful in the treacly orange early light as though, waking from a long sleep, they need somebody to sit on them to give them reason to exist. A magpie struts and frets upon his little hill with no such doubts. Thus, as the Green begins to fill with dog walkers and saunterers, the whole place begins to seem more than a photograph frozen in time. The wind is fresh and strengthens throughout the morning. The sea grumbles. The sun is warm from a clear sky but a mist obscures the hills. And the oak tree, now divested of leaves, has taken on another green canopy - a ragged tent or awning of some sort. It does not look convincing.
From 23rd November 2021
A steel bright worried-looking sea fading to charcoal towards the horizon. A straight band of mauve clouds then a succession of colours - orange, deep yellow, primrose and pale green before into the palest of blues to a violet at the zenith. The whole arrangement framed by the low black bushes and impentetrable green of the ilex to one side and the deep, not yet red vertical line of the brick wall to the other. A single thin brush stroke of purple cloud makes it a perfect sunrise. #Bournemouth #November #WestCliff #autumn
From 23rd November 2019
My feeling in the morning is dictated by which shoes I put on. If I am serious and want to feel grounded, it is my boots. If lighter and springier and devil may care, it’s the trainers. Or perhaps the footware depends on whether it’s raining or not. Today is definitely a trainery day. The air is fresh and cold but not frosty. The sea is smooth and cheerful and even the shadows among the pines conceal delights of banks of crunchy golden leaves rather than anything more sinister. But the dawn is glorious; the sun, still hidden by banks of purple storybook clouds, is bustling up into a pale gold sky.
22nd November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The heavy, navy blue clouds are punched through with a gap that discloses the bright day above and beyond.
The rain patters down cold and steady. The heavy, navy blue clouds are punched through with a gap that discloses the bright day above and beyond. the waves are undecided between restless and soothing. There are more dark shapes about than the usual dog walkers. There is a click of heels and shuffle of trainers. Nobody speaks on the way to work. A soundlesss stream of humanity not quite in full function mode. Later, the sun sweeps away the dawn rain but a huge slab of black cloud crawls in from the hills dragging curtains of rain again.
From 22nd November 2019
Here's an interesting piece of corvid behaviour I spotted on my way home this morning. Two crows on the fence rail. One has, what looks like, a piece of meat in her beak. As I approach she flies down and begins washing it in a puddle. A deliberate act, swishing it back and forth. As I get nearer she moves and begins dunking the meat up and down. And again. Sometimes she drops the meat in the puddle before, in the end, swallowing it. Is it some sort of display behaviour? Or merely a matter of hygiene?
From 22nd November 2017
Leaning on the gale on my way home, when it started to rain. Heavy drops like ball bearings, mixed in with the slashing salt spray and the sand blast from the beach. Happy to be home.
From 22nd November 2015
The evening holds its icy breath. Between the distant murmur of traffic and the soothing hush of the surf the clifftop is still, bathed in the hard silver light of the moon. The moon is not yet sufficient for hare hunters to be about their business but it is bright enough to cast a shadow on the empty path between the streetlamps. The whole of Poole Bay can be picked out in the silver glitter from the cluster of lights that is Studland and the red and green flashes of the Swash Channel right over to the slow red of the Needles Light with the tall scarlet prinked towers of the two Isle of Wight tv transmitters behind. In the far distance the bright strobe of St Catherine's Light on the southernmost point of the island is mirrored On Nine Barrow Down, by a pair of headlights which flash briefly. The farmer is checking his cattle for the night.
From 22nd November 2012
It is really wild on the cliff top tonight. The noise of sea is a continuous dull roar counterpointed by the moaning and thrashing of the tree branches.
21st November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The big white topped breakers march in across the bay and hurl themselves onto the sand with an excited fury.
The rain is heavy and continuous, pouring down from a flat, grey sky. The wind rattles the deluging drops through the trees. The big white topped breakers march in across the bay and hurl themselves onto the sand with an excited fury. Puddles on the paths join together making lakes that overflow into rivers, racing towards the chines and down into the sea. For some reason, pigeons are standing in the puddles maybe taking the opportunity to bathe. Magpies skulk about in the leaf litter. There no human beings about except for a lone cyclist in T shirt and shorts, bowling along before the breeze and blinded by the rain. The last of the sweet chestnut leaves, long and yellow form banks and drifts .
From 21st November 2021
One of those late autumn days with the golden brown leaves piled high on the pavements where small dogs become buried and even the most straight laced cannot resist a swish swish crunch whilst (they think) noone is looking. The air is chill but the sky is blue and dotted with little fairweather clouds. The sea is barely rippled. But by mid day, slabs of grey are emerging from the West and as the sun is hidden the temperature drops. A cold wind says it won't be long till winter. #Bournemouth #WestCliff #Autumn #November.
From 21st November 2012
A navy blue night of such depth and stillness; the stars burning with such a fire that it would burn into your soul if you did not turn away. The half moon as sharp as though cut from ice with a child's scissors. The sea mumbling restlesslessly sliced with an intense silver moon-path