It begins in the dip of the dunes, a hollow from time passing, surrounded by spiky marram fronds tangling in the wind with their pompon flowers and curlicue ends. It is commensurate with our love.
"I hold you in my heart, love" he says.
"And I you."
He palms my cheek and lowers his mouth to mine drinking sage and thyme from my lips. His hands stroke from my neck to my breast as he kisses my throat and I melt into his embrace. I have always been a rose among his thorns and he may yet draw blood but the bitter sweet sadness of our separation melts away as the rhythm of my heart's staccato beat increases and revives us, smelling salts to the memories of times gone by. I am at his mercy, he at mine. The salted ginger and musk of his skin arouse my inner goddess.
"Be mine" he pleads.
"Always" I answer, and he lowers me to the crust of salt-sand at the heart of the dune and we drink from the glorious lovers cup, fermented, sweet as botrytis, a forbidden fruit.
Sunday 25 October 2015
Thursday 22 October 2015
Victory Lap
The journey to the UK was spent squashed between two generously proportioned Women's Institute knitters, and between their gossip and their girth I had managed neither sleep nor sustenance. Now as I escape the Knitters and the confines of coach and am reintroduced to the idea of being in control of my own limbs I find myself longing for food. There is a bar after Passport control and I pick up a coffee and a tuna sandwich. There's something miraculous about the reviving quality of coffee. I find I don't have to drink it, just the smell of it, the suggestion of caffeine, kicks my brain in to gear. I have no doubt I would have been one of Pavlov's favourite dogs, I am so readily susceptible to suggestion.
Conscious of the crowd of people streaming past me to clog the baggage reclaim carousels I stow the tuna sandwich and take a last sniff at the caffeine before moving on. As I near baggage reclaim I check the flight number on the overhead screen and notice the flight has not been assigned a carousel yet. I have beaten the system. For a moment I feel quietly smug but then reality dawns on me that this is not terribly helpful: I have escaped the aeroplane only to be at the mercy of the ground staff. Hostage once more. I resign myself to make the most of the moment of freedom for what it is and decide to eat the tuna sandwich. For hours I have been confined to a seat in the plane, my desperation to escape still palpable in the air and yet I search for somewhere to sit. Such are the conventions:I was brought up to sit down to eat.
I scan the baggage reclaim hall and spot a bank of four seats. Two are free but as I near the bench I realise the occupants are the two WI women from the plane, still knitting, and I quickly swerve away, taking all due care not to make eye contact, and search for an alternative. The majority of people are concentrated around three reclaim belts and I notice the one at the end of the hall is out of order and I decide to perch on that.
Removing the sandwich from my bag I sit on the overlapping rubber mats of the carousel and struggle to find an angle of comfort. That done to the best of my ability I am about to unwrap the sandwich when an inaudible tannoy system announces its most recent gibberish. I put down the sandwich on the carousel, pick up my bag and go to check the screen. No new information is available, but as I turn back I bump into the WI Knitters again who ask me if I know when the bags will come. They are, to be kind, a little beyond middle age, these two knitting bookends, and it occurs to me that maybe they cannot read the writing on the screen without their glasses.
"No news yet" I say in a sudden act of civility.
That was all the encouragement they needed. I was dragged into the position of semi-participant-audience for the next five minutes of 'conversation' and my only way out seemed to be to offer to get a baggage trolley for them which they accepted gratefully. I skulked off and left them to it, heading not to the trolleys but back to my sandwich.
I had got as far as removing half the sandwich from the wrapper when a second announcement was heard ( although I am not quite sure if it was intelligible to anyone) and I had to get up to check the screen again. Nothing.
"Couldn't you find a trolley dear?" Damn. "I think they are over there"
"Ok ladies, back in a minute." There was no escape. At the other end of the baggage hall there was a line of trolleys stacked together and I went to collect one. A third announcement followed by a whirring of machinery and an audible warning bell looked more promising. The mounting impatience of a hall full of jet lagged and weary travellers suddenly stirred itself to action as positions were vied for at the side of the carousel and my two knitters finally put away their ball of wool, jabbed through with needles, and urged me into a better position at the carousel.
Before I know how it's happened I'm standing three deep in a scrum of desperation, suitcases being pulled from the carousel into my chins, yanked up with such force that I'm elbowed in the ribs and with other passengers stepping back onto my toes to make their escape. A rugby scrum? American football? They have nothing on these desperate passengers. I give up all hope of escaping to my tuna sandwich and pitted myself to the yolk. As the belt begins to clear I spot my case and pull it clear, shortly after helping the Knitters with their bags. I waved them off with the trolley and dragging my suitcase back to the out of order carousel, prepared to eat my tuna sandwich in my own time, on my own terms.
There is a sudden whirring of machinery I front of me and an audible warning bell and from across the room I see that my sandwich is on the move. The out of order conveyor belt it seems is out of order no longer. I drag my suitcase as fast as I possibly can and reach the conveyor belt just in time to watch my sandwich disappear through a rubber curtain. In desperation I abandon my suitcase climb on board the baggage reclaim belt and ride on my hands and knees through the curtain. Re emerging through the other curtain fifteen seconds later,surfer style, sandwich in hand, feeling every inch the hero of the hour and take a
full lap of honour before joining my suitcase.
Conscious of the crowd of people streaming past me to clog the baggage reclaim carousels I stow the tuna sandwich and take a last sniff at the caffeine before moving on. As I near baggage reclaim I check the flight number on the overhead screen and notice the flight has not been assigned a carousel yet. I have beaten the system. For a moment I feel quietly smug but then reality dawns on me that this is not terribly helpful: I have escaped the aeroplane only to be at the mercy of the ground staff. Hostage once more. I resign myself to make the most of the moment of freedom for what it is and decide to eat the tuna sandwich. For hours I have been confined to a seat in the plane, my desperation to escape still palpable in the air and yet I search for somewhere to sit. Such are the conventions:I was brought up to sit down to eat.
I scan the baggage reclaim hall and spot a bank of four seats. Two are free but as I near the bench I realise the occupants are the two WI women from the plane, still knitting, and I quickly swerve away, taking all due care not to make eye contact, and search for an alternative. The majority of people are concentrated around three reclaim belts and I notice the one at the end of the hall is out of order and I decide to perch on that.
Removing the sandwich from my bag I sit on the overlapping rubber mats of the carousel and struggle to find an angle of comfort. That done to the best of my ability I am about to unwrap the sandwich when an inaudible tannoy system announces its most recent gibberish. I put down the sandwich on the carousel, pick up my bag and go to check the screen. No new information is available, but as I turn back I bump into the WI Knitters again who ask me if I know when the bags will come. They are, to be kind, a little beyond middle age, these two knitting bookends, and it occurs to me that maybe they cannot read the writing on the screen without their glasses.
"No news yet" I say in a sudden act of civility.
That was all the encouragement they needed. I was dragged into the position of semi-participant-audience for the next five minutes of 'conversation' and my only way out seemed to be to offer to get a baggage trolley for them which they accepted gratefully. I skulked off and left them to it, heading not to the trolleys but back to my sandwich.
I had got as far as removing half the sandwich from the wrapper when a second announcement was heard ( although I am not quite sure if it was intelligible to anyone) and I had to get up to check the screen again. Nothing.
"Couldn't you find a trolley dear?" Damn. "I think they are over there"
"Ok ladies, back in a minute." There was no escape. At the other end of the baggage hall there was a line of trolleys stacked together and I went to collect one. A third announcement followed by a whirring of machinery and an audible warning bell looked more promising. The mounting impatience of a hall full of jet lagged and weary travellers suddenly stirred itself to action as positions were vied for at the side of the carousel and my two knitters finally put away their ball of wool, jabbed through with needles, and urged me into a better position at the carousel.
Before I know how it's happened I'm standing three deep in a scrum of desperation, suitcases being pulled from the carousel into my chins, yanked up with such force that I'm elbowed in the ribs and with other passengers stepping back onto my toes to make their escape. A rugby scrum? American football? They have nothing on these desperate passengers. I give up all hope of escaping to my tuna sandwich and pitted myself to the yolk. As the belt begins to clear I spot my case and pull it clear, shortly after helping the Knitters with their bags. I waved them off with the trolley and dragging my suitcase back to the out of order carousel, prepared to eat my tuna sandwich in my own time, on my own terms.
There is a sudden whirring of machinery I front of me and an audible warning bell and from across the room I see that my sandwich is on the move. The out of order conveyor belt it seems is out of order no longer. I drag my suitcase as fast as I possibly can and reach the conveyor belt just in time to watch my sandwich disappear through a rubber curtain. In desperation I abandon my suitcase climb on board the baggage reclaim belt and ride on my hands and knees through the curtain. Re emerging through the other curtain fifteen seconds later,surfer style, sandwich in hand, feeling every inch the hero of the hour and take a
full lap of honour before joining my suitcase.
Faith Healing
There is nourishment from the chalice, a new beginning, a promise to open the doors to my heart.
"Drink this in remembrance of me." The voice whispers in my head as I supplicate on my knees. January waxes to February, March. The voice whispers on, "Focus, see the handprint in the wall of memories. Push through, let in a chink of light, of hope, of belief. Bring down the protective armour from about you. Do not be afraid, the pain will pass. Know that you have it to do now, it is in front of you, a foe to be defeated, but it will not always be so. Conquer your fears, break down the walls. They are not nearly so solid and terrifying as they appear. Know when this is done you open the way for new possibilities. You will be unhobbled, unbound, no longer yoked to those weighty irrationalities. Let the light of serenity fill up the gaps. See your memories for what they are: the past, stripped down to truth and bone, and let them lay as skeletons of the past, not guardians of the future, blood full of rust and iron. They will decay, and from there decomposition you will grow again in love and trust as I watch from above."
"Drink this in remembrance of me." The voice whispers in my head as I supplicate on my knees. January waxes to February, March. The voice whispers on, "Focus, see the handprint in the wall of memories. Push through, let in a chink of light, of hope, of belief. Bring down the protective armour from about you. Do not be afraid, the pain will pass. Know that you have it to do now, it is in front of you, a foe to be defeated, but it will not always be so. Conquer your fears, break down the walls. They are not nearly so solid and terrifying as they appear. Know when this is done you open the way for new possibilities. You will be unhobbled, unbound, no longer yoked to those weighty irrationalities. Let the light of serenity fill up the gaps. See your memories for what they are: the past, stripped down to truth and bone, and let them lay as skeletons of the past, not guardians of the future, blood full of rust and iron. They will decay, and from there decomposition you will grow again in love and trust as I watch from above."
Saturday 17 October 2015
After the Storm
It had been a long night of watching and waiting for the sleep that did not come. The window pane rattled to the winds command and leaves clawed at the glass insistently, begging to come in from the cold. The lighthouse set up its steady rhythm, a metronome of light sweeping the bay: blink, blink, then drowning darkness followed by a crescendo of light dimming again to nothing. I had listened to the plaintive cry of fog horns as the fishing boats felt their way home to safe harbour. I imagined the heaving decks, slick with sea water, men peering through eyes brimful of brine and sting, searching for their safe haven.
Usually the indoor sounds of a storm sooth me, I am comforted by my own position of security, but the sound of that boat kept taking me out to be tossed on the sea and I could not rest knowing there were souls on board, possibly lost unable to rest. In my mind the hymn I had known so well from Sunday school came back to me: Oh hear us when we cry to thee, for those in peril on the sea, and I hummed it over and over, a pleading lullaby to the storm.
When the storm finally blew herself out in the Reaping hours, I made myself a cup of tea and sat in silence feeling exhausted,defeated, but then the dawn broke and the chink of sun lit the far horizon bringing warmth and hope. All would be well. I put on my boots and walked down on to the ribbon of beach left by the lowering tide. A necklace of shells glinted on the hightide line interspersed with long ribbons of gelatinous kelp and mermaid hair stripped from its roots. My footfalls slid into miniature gritty dunes of sand as I trudged the shoreline, deep in my own daydreams, toward the spit of rocks at the end. Once there I needed to pick out a route amongst the seaweed mounds and rock pools to traverse the slippery rocks safely, but I cannot help searching for hidden treasure. It is easier to see in this flat morning light where sky is not mirrored on the water surface of the clear pools. The waving fronds of an undisturbed anemone, the sideways scuttle of a crab, the fluster of small fry are an illicit pleasure, but as I gain the top of the promontory my eyes once more seek the horizon. It is not as far off as it should be. The grey clouds hangs low in the sky, exhausted from their exploits, the space between them and sea shrouded in a visual white noise of fog resting on a calmed sheet of hammered steel sea. Like me, the oceans appears to be holding her breath after the storm, waiting to see what the day will bring
Usually the indoor sounds of a storm sooth me, I am comforted by my own position of security, but the sound of that boat kept taking me out to be tossed on the sea and I could not rest knowing there were souls on board, possibly lost unable to rest. In my mind the hymn I had known so well from Sunday school came back to me: Oh hear us when we cry to thee, for those in peril on the sea, and I hummed it over and over, a pleading lullaby to the storm.
When the storm finally blew herself out in the Reaping hours, I made myself a cup of tea and sat in silence feeling exhausted,defeated, but then the dawn broke and the chink of sun lit the far horizon bringing warmth and hope. All would be well. I put on my boots and walked down on to the ribbon of beach left by the lowering tide. A necklace of shells glinted on the hightide line interspersed with long ribbons of gelatinous kelp and mermaid hair stripped from its roots. My footfalls slid into miniature gritty dunes of sand as I trudged the shoreline, deep in my own daydreams, toward the spit of rocks at the end. Once there I needed to pick out a route amongst the seaweed mounds and rock pools to traverse the slippery rocks safely, but I cannot help searching for hidden treasure. It is easier to see in this flat morning light where sky is not mirrored on the water surface of the clear pools. The waving fronds of an undisturbed anemone, the sideways scuttle of a crab, the fluster of small fry are an illicit pleasure, but as I gain the top of the promontory my eyes once more seek the horizon. It is not as far off as it should be. The grey clouds hangs low in the sky, exhausted from their exploits, the space between them and sea shrouded in a visual white noise of fog resting on a calmed sheet of hammered steel sea. Like me, the oceans appears to be holding her breath after the storm, waiting to see what the day will bring
Thursday 15 October 2015
A Love Story
Once, long ago, Land and Sea fell in love. Sea would caress Land day and night shuddering with pleasure and Land would hold Sea tight in her secret places cradling his essence. She would peel glittering gems from her skirts and gift them to Sea until he was rich with her treasures. These gifts were so numerous that Sea could not care for them all, not for all his polishing back and forth and by and by they lost their shine and Sea began to deposit them around the shores of their affection overwhelmed by Lands generosity, and retreat silently back into himself. Daily Land would offer them to him again, a dowry for her love but Sea turned his back asking her to keep them safe for he could not carry them all and did not want them to be harmed in his salt spray tustles with North Wind when they went out to revel together.
"Wind is my companion, but he a jealous and vengeful soul. He has loved you as long as I, but where I would mould you through time with love, he would shape you to his will with no regard for your desires. I must parry with him to save you from his ravages."
Land sat heavy in contemplation for a while and whispered gently to her lover
"But how will you go to him my Lord, and how shall I know you will return to me?"
"Gaze upon your sister, Moon, and know she will pull me to him just as surely as she will always return me to you and I will trace the nakedness of your shores with my loving fingers for all eternity."
"Wind is my companion, but he a jealous and vengeful soul. He has loved you as long as I, but where I would mould you through time with love, he would shape you to his will with no regard for your desires. I must parry with him to save you from his ravages."
Land sat heavy in contemplation for a while and whispered gently to her lover
"But how will you go to him my Lord, and how shall I know you will return to me?"
"Gaze upon your sister, Moon, and know she will pull me to him just as surely as she will always return me to you and I will trace the nakedness of your shores with my loving fingers for all eternity."
Wednesday 14 October 2015
A Spectre in our Midst
The seance was arranged to take place in Aunty Mabel's Parlour in Croyden Hill. Someone had failed to do the maths: it would be a squeeze, especially with the rosewood dining table hogging the centre of the room decked with the ouija board and fresh candles, but it was better to meet somewhere the dear departed had spent time, and nobody could think of any walls that held so many memories of Bert as those (except the legion), even though the cracks had been papered over with bold blowsy blooms in flocked orange and brown. As everyone arrived a mountain of coats grew on Granny's sagging bed. There was no social order there, camel hair coats were flung on top of donkey jackets, mackintoshes on top of ponchos, Madge's fur wrap struggling for air at the bottom. There was a constant to and fro down the narrow corridor from the bedroom and the parlour and greetings could not be ignored, a curt nod here, a fond embrace there, a wink, ; it was an intricate weave of body language and feet as we congregated beyond the front door.
"Maybe we should have gone to George's, it' certainly is going to be cosy" Aunty Mabel trilled nervously adjusting chairs.
"That's it love, if only we had you're gift for foresight," Uncle Bob muttered acidly. Aunty Mabel ducked the verbal blow expertly, used to the sniping belittlements that came her way and chivvied the guests into the room.
"Welcome, welcome, in you come now. Take a seat. Coats in the bedroom John, we're going to be as warm as toast in here."
Ezra arrived, her usual mix of haughty bustle and condescension. She stared glacially at each member of family in turn, assessing her superiority. Uncle Bob was the only one immune to this behaviour. Undeterred by its blatant hostility he came forward to great her, leaning in for a kiss on the cheek. He was not quick enough though, as Ezra put up her hands to ward him off.
"No thank you Bob. You know I don't do counterfeit affection. I know we all agreed to be here for this sham but let's not pretend any of us would be together otherwise." Usually oblivious to the sting of words, more familiar with doling them out than receiving them, Bob looked hurt for a moment but quickly recovered and with great decorum and chivalry bowed slightly and pulled out a chair for Aunt Ezra. Long ago My mother told me they had once been close, loved each other even, but what ever lay between them, forgiveness was still a long way off.
The family were finally gathered, everyone seated about the table, the wallpaper flowers bending in, making the room feel even more crowded. Aunty Mabel took her seat in the circle and lit the candles with a long taper, taking control of the room instantly.
"It is time, to remember those who have passed and speak with them in the present. Let us link hands to complete the connection. Rita, as you are on my right you will have your hand on the planchette with me. Is that alright dear?" Rita nodded nervously. Aunty Mabel ceremoniously placed her hand in Uncle Bob's, offering the other to Rita and everyone else followed suit, all in an attempt to determine what stake they would have in great Uncle Bert's meagre estate: war medals, a silver snuff box, savings bonds, the ceremonial sword. Uncle Bob and Aunty Mabel, having cared for Bert in the last few years of his life were probably hoping for the lion's share. If Mabel could sway the spirits to convince everyone she was the rightful heir to the whole lot she would, but more than anything she wanted to keep the furniture. It was rather too good for the upstairs flat she and Uncle Bob shared but I have to say I hoped they would keep it, I didn't fancy being roped into moving it again after the struggle we had on the stairs getting it up here. Ezra had a craving for something but her desires were a mystery to everyone, possibly even herself. As for me, I had no great expectation, but hoped for the old Lyons biscuit tin stuffed with black and white photographs. All of those photographs had a story to tell, a secret to whisper like torchlight on mysteries and I badly wanted to be their confidant.
Aunty Mabel's countenance changed as she settled into the role of medium. She became still and grave, breathing deeply.
"All Hallows' now gather to share your secrets and desires one letter at a time. Share with us your wisdom through the veil of night." Agatha tittered and Aunty Ethel cleared her throat meaningfully, then gave her a sharp dig in the ribs for good measure, at which the titter became a squeak. "Enter our presence through the seams of memory" Aunty Mabel continued "and give us answers to our earthly concerns. Bert, Albert Heather, are you there? Come into the bosom of your loving family once more. Speak with us. Give us a sign."
The planchette twitched beneath her hand and began to glide across the ouija board, hesitantly at first, them more purposefully,
'G
O, S
U CK, E GG S, BITCH'.
The witch sat on the balcony outside the parlour window, hidden by the trellis, twirling a tress of black silky hair, cackling to herself with the satisfaction of a job well done as she viewed the ensuing mayhem as the seance scattered and fled.
"Maybe we should have gone to George's, it' certainly is going to be cosy" Aunty Mabel trilled nervously adjusting chairs.
"That's it love, if only we had you're gift for foresight," Uncle Bob muttered acidly. Aunty Mabel ducked the verbal blow expertly, used to the sniping belittlements that came her way and chivvied the guests into the room.
"Welcome, welcome, in you come now. Take a seat. Coats in the bedroom John, we're going to be as warm as toast in here."
Ezra arrived, her usual mix of haughty bustle and condescension. She stared glacially at each member of family in turn, assessing her superiority. Uncle Bob was the only one immune to this behaviour. Undeterred by its blatant hostility he came forward to great her, leaning in for a kiss on the cheek. He was not quick enough though, as Ezra put up her hands to ward him off.
"No thank you Bob. You know I don't do counterfeit affection. I know we all agreed to be here for this sham but let's not pretend any of us would be together otherwise." Usually oblivious to the sting of words, more familiar with doling them out than receiving them, Bob looked hurt for a moment but quickly recovered and with great decorum and chivalry bowed slightly and pulled out a chair for Aunt Ezra. Long ago My mother told me they had once been close, loved each other even, but what ever lay between them, forgiveness was still a long way off.
The family were finally gathered, everyone seated about the table, the wallpaper flowers bending in, making the room feel even more crowded. Aunty Mabel took her seat in the circle and lit the candles with a long taper, taking control of the room instantly.
"It is time, to remember those who have passed and speak with them in the present. Let us link hands to complete the connection. Rita, as you are on my right you will have your hand on the planchette with me. Is that alright dear?" Rita nodded nervously. Aunty Mabel ceremoniously placed her hand in Uncle Bob's, offering the other to Rita and everyone else followed suit, all in an attempt to determine what stake they would have in great Uncle Bert's meagre estate: war medals, a silver snuff box, savings bonds, the ceremonial sword. Uncle Bob and Aunty Mabel, having cared for Bert in the last few years of his life were probably hoping for the lion's share. If Mabel could sway the spirits to convince everyone she was the rightful heir to the whole lot she would, but more than anything she wanted to keep the furniture. It was rather too good for the upstairs flat she and Uncle Bob shared but I have to say I hoped they would keep it, I didn't fancy being roped into moving it again after the struggle we had on the stairs getting it up here. Ezra had a craving for something but her desires were a mystery to everyone, possibly even herself. As for me, I had no great expectation, but hoped for the old Lyons biscuit tin stuffed with black and white photographs. All of those photographs had a story to tell, a secret to whisper like torchlight on mysteries and I badly wanted to be their confidant.
Aunty Mabel's countenance changed as she settled into the role of medium. She became still and grave, breathing deeply.
"All Hallows' now gather to share your secrets and desires one letter at a time. Share with us your wisdom through the veil of night." Agatha tittered and Aunty Ethel cleared her throat meaningfully, then gave her a sharp dig in the ribs for good measure, at which the titter became a squeak. "Enter our presence through the seams of memory" Aunty Mabel continued "and give us answers to our earthly concerns. Bert, Albert Heather, are you there? Come into the bosom of your loving family once more. Speak with us. Give us a sign."
The planchette twitched beneath her hand and began to glide across the ouija board, hesitantly at first, them more purposefully,
'G
O, S
U CK, E GG S, BITCH'.
The witch sat on the balcony outside the parlour window, hidden by the trellis, twirling a tress of black silky hair, cackling to herself with the satisfaction of a job well done as she viewed the ensuing mayhem as the seance scattered and fled.
Friday 2 October 2015
Walking Bryher
Recharged with a minted pea and goats cheese ciabatta I enjoy the view from Hell Bay's terrace watching the swallows dart, flirting with the currents of air. Three white swans paddle incongruously on a briny pool, buffeted sideways by a determined sea breeze affecting the usual calm composure and making them look slightly flustered. I finish my drink and watch as the finches gather to stake a claim on any crumb I may have dropped. It is tempting to leave the biscotti for them but this sort of behaviour is firmly discouraged: years of tourist generosity has turned them into a menace, however appealing.
Time to move on, first to the horseshoe of sand at the far side of the pool a bay of glinting ruffles in the afternoon sun. It is far too inviting to ignore and I give in to my desire to remove my shoes and feel the abrasive grittiness of granite seed sand beneath my feet. I will have silica sparkles painted on my skin, walk with the silvered shimmer of a goddess for the afternoon.
A bright orange shell catches my eye, it's tiny curl disappearing to nothing. I pick it up. It will be the first of many such treasures no doubt, squirrelled away in the seam of my pocket to be rediscovered and bring me back to this moment, a time machine.
I carefully clamber over the sun bleached rounded pebbles at the back of the beach and over the shallow dune dotted with daisies and sea pinks and look back at the arc of beach as I rub the sand from my toes. Shoes on I check my cap is secure before heading out of the sheltered bay and up onto the moorland heather. Once there my footfalls bounce on the peaty ground as I glance periodically over the rocks towards the sea, hoping for a glimpse of seal. They are in pup and I have heard their rough bark of labour coming from the rocky outcrops but they are wise enough to stay away from beaches populated by humans and their dogs. This is a precarious time for them, giving birth, keeping their small pups safe, no time for careless sunbathing . I am always hopeful though that I may see a sleek head eyeing me as it bobs back and forth, up and down in the rocking sea. I have been known to stand quite entranced for five or ten minutes , quite convinced that I have spied a seal, waiting for him to turn and slide away between the waves before I realise it was a boulder all along.
The seagulls glide and cry over the rocks, bickering over their right to a favourite perch but it gives me great joy to see three dumpy, ungainly shapes flying low to the sea and then disappearing behind a rocky headland. Puffins are the clowns of the air, their faces painted with gaudy colours but do not be fooled, they are masters of the dive and catch. A shag, fresh from its own fishing trip stands sentinel on a rock hanging its wings out to dry.
My time well spent I turn inland to cross towards the channel and catch the boat home. The water is high and I must make it back to the church quay for my ride back. I make one last stop at a small green painted kiosk. A local farmer selling his produce by the farm. He has too many demands to be waiting here but I choose some tomatoes and a courgette and place the money in the honesty box. What happiness to know that I can feast on Island produce bought at source, crab from the sea and sun warmed veg' straight from the earth. I arrive at the quay in time to marvel at the mass of water that has reappeared since the low tide. Where I had walked on dry sand the water is now over five metres deep and there is only one way home.
Time to move on, first to the horseshoe of sand at the far side of the pool a bay of glinting ruffles in the afternoon sun. It is far too inviting to ignore and I give in to my desire to remove my shoes and feel the abrasive grittiness of granite seed sand beneath my feet. I will have silica sparkles painted on my skin, walk with the silvered shimmer of a goddess for the afternoon.
A bright orange shell catches my eye, it's tiny curl disappearing to nothing. I pick it up. It will be the first of many such treasures no doubt, squirrelled away in the seam of my pocket to be rediscovered and bring me back to this moment, a time machine.
I carefully clamber over the sun bleached rounded pebbles at the back of the beach and over the shallow dune dotted with daisies and sea pinks and look back at the arc of beach as I rub the sand from my toes. Shoes on I check my cap is secure before heading out of the sheltered bay and up onto the moorland heather. Once there my footfalls bounce on the peaty ground as I glance periodically over the rocks towards the sea, hoping for a glimpse of seal. They are in pup and I have heard their rough bark of labour coming from the rocky outcrops but they are wise enough to stay away from beaches populated by humans and their dogs. This is a precarious time for them, giving birth, keeping their small pups safe, no time for careless sunbathing . I am always hopeful though that I may see a sleek head eyeing me as it bobs back and forth, up and down in the rocking sea. I have been known to stand quite entranced for five or ten minutes , quite convinced that I have spied a seal, waiting for him to turn and slide away between the waves before I realise it was a boulder all along.
The seagulls glide and cry over the rocks, bickering over their right to a favourite perch but it gives me great joy to see three dumpy, ungainly shapes flying low to the sea and then disappearing behind a rocky headland. Puffins are the clowns of the air, their faces painted with gaudy colours but do not be fooled, they are masters of the dive and catch. A shag, fresh from its own fishing trip stands sentinel on a rock hanging its wings out to dry.
My time well spent I turn inland to cross towards the channel and catch the boat home. The water is high and I must make it back to the church quay for my ride back. I make one last stop at a small green painted kiosk. A local farmer selling his produce by the farm. He has too many demands to be waiting here but I choose some tomatoes and a courgette and place the money in the honesty box. What happiness to know that I can feast on Island produce bought at source, crab from the sea and sun warmed veg' straight from the earth. I arrive at the quay in time to marvel at the mass of water that has reappeared since the low tide. Where I had walked on dry sand the water is now over five metres deep and there is only one way home.
Between Islands
Donning my neoprene shoes I prepare to walk on water. It is only a thin film, no miracles here other than the ebb and flow of a Spring Tide revealing a horseshoe of sand bars normally six feet under or more between Islands. It is an odd sensation to stride out on to land normally hidden by tides, but last night a blood red super moon hung in the heavens casting her spell and today the miraculous is made possible for all mortals.
There is a moonscape of sandbars and flattened dunes normally hidden in the channel between two islands. Sun glitters on the puddles,opaque moonstone and aquamarine, left between rippling ribbons of sand. The beauty is only marred by the sulphurous smell seeping from the sand, making its escape from the blanket of sea that normally smothers it.The seagulls look slightly perturbed at having their fishing ground removed and stalk in and around the small puddles of sea that are left, trying their luck. I try to pinpoint landmarks I have known well; plumb Island; Cromwell's castle; Hang-mans rock, and find from this new perspective everything relates differently to each other. There's a metaphor for life there somewhere.
New born rivers of seawater collect in hastily formed oxbow lakes and rutted channels, a hurried geography of creation, making their mark before slowly sinking away into the sand. Alien forms of drying seaweed lie impotent on the sand without the sea's support, revealing their forms of leathery curls, turgid greens and bristly hairs. A small boat grounded by the receding of the tide reveals its underside in desperate need of a bikini wax, a beard of bristles clinging to its bottom.
It is with regret that I reach the other side of the channel and I am filled with a desire to go back and watch the sea encroach towards me. But this would be madness, already the moon hold on the tide slackens and the sand bars are are returning to their watery graves, my footprints washed away from the sea's bed.
There is a moonscape of sandbars and flattened dunes normally hidden in the channel between two islands. Sun glitters on the puddles,opaque moonstone and aquamarine, left between rippling ribbons of sand. The beauty is only marred by the sulphurous smell seeping from the sand, making its escape from the blanket of sea that normally smothers it.The seagulls look slightly perturbed at having their fishing ground removed and stalk in and around the small puddles of sea that are left, trying their luck. I try to pinpoint landmarks I have known well; plumb Island; Cromwell's castle; Hang-mans rock, and find from this new perspective everything relates differently to each other. There's a metaphor for life there somewhere.
New born rivers of seawater collect in hastily formed oxbow lakes and rutted channels, a hurried geography of creation, making their mark before slowly sinking away into the sand. Alien forms of drying seaweed lie impotent on the sand without the sea's support, revealing their forms of leathery curls, turgid greens and bristly hairs. A small boat grounded by the receding of the tide reveals its underside in desperate need of a bikini wax, a beard of bristles clinging to its bottom.
It is with regret that I reach the other side of the channel and I am filled with a desire to go back and watch the sea encroach towards me. But this would be madness, already the moon hold on the tide slackens and the sand bars are are returning to their watery graves, my footprints washed away from the sea's bed.
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