Saturday 28 November 2009
Thursday 19 November 2009
All alone
16 November
The sky is overcast and the sea whipped into white curls by the keen on-shore breeze. I see noone apart from, in the car park on the edge of the cliff, a figure sitting in a small silver car that faces the sea. Small birds scurry through the gorse, staying close to the ground. Gulls congregate in the fields. Their cries penetrate the roar of the sea and wind. I spot a kestrel on the cliff face. He does not move from the shelter he has found even when the curve of the path takes me closer and I watch him through binoculars for some minutes. The grass shivers around my feet and individual blades shine as they move. As I walk, Godrevy lighthouse, stark white against the black of encroaching rain, disappears from view. I disturb a flock of tiny birds that fling themselves into the air like a handful of ash. There is a pair of stonechats on the wire fence. The one nearest to me sits tight for as long as it dares, then lifts off to a safer distance further down. As I approach the second, it too takes flight to a position beyond the first and so the game continues as I make my way. Black faced sheep watch as I turn my back on the smoky filaments of rain now descending from the clouds to the sea, and enter the woods. Here the colours are yellow, brown, orange and green: too much green from leaves torn off by the wind before their time. I stand under an ancient oak, its branches reaching far out from its trunk and ending in thin skeletal fingers that almost touch the ground. Nearby is a beech so alight with yellow leaves that for a moment I think the sun has come out.
The sky is overcast and the sea whipped into white curls by the keen on-shore breeze. I see noone apart from, in the car park on the edge of the cliff, a figure sitting in a small silver car that faces the sea. Small birds scurry through the gorse, staying close to the ground. Gulls congregate in the fields. Their cries penetrate the roar of the sea and wind. I spot a kestrel on the cliff face. He does not move from the shelter he has found even when the curve of the path takes me closer and I watch him through binoculars for some minutes. The grass shivers around my feet and individual blades shine as they move. As I walk, Godrevy lighthouse, stark white against the black of encroaching rain, disappears from view. I disturb a flock of tiny birds that fling themselves into the air like a handful of ash. There is a pair of stonechats on the wire fence. The one nearest to me sits tight for as long as it dares, then lifts off to a safer distance further down. As I approach the second, it too takes flight to a position beyond the first and so the game continues as I make my way. Black faced sheep watch as I turn my back on the smoky filaments of rain now descending from the clouds to the sea, and enter the woods. Here the colours are yellow, brown, orange and green: too much green from leaves torn off by the wind before their time. I stand under an ancient oak, its branches reaching far out from its trunk and ending in thin skeletal fingers that almost touch the ground. Nearby is a beech so alight with yellow leaves that for a moment I think the sun has come out.
Monday 9 November 2009
Magical day
9 November
The seasons shifted. Winter doffed its hat briefly to spring. The thin gruel of cold, grey, wet days was replaced by a world as rich as a large box of assorted chocolates.
Blue sky with a few wisps of cloud. Sunshine. An absence of wind. The gentle hissing of the surf. Starlings clustered on the telegraph wires. Again the continuous burbling of a lark, heard but not seen. A red and black butterfly dancing into, and then out of the boot of the car. A greenfinch - bright orange cap, wings splashed with yellow - pulling powder puffs of seed heads from thistles. The drone of a small plane and a motorbike suddenly exploding the silence, sharing time but in different universes than this one of mine. A cloud of linnets undulating through the air. A stone chat high on a gorse bush. A wren clinging, tail cocked, to a brown stem of cow parsley.
Fiona (grey hair cut in a bob), Barry (bearded) and Katie the black cocker spaniel who told me they walk the path regularly. We had never met before, but today our lives touched before continuing their separate trajectories.
The roofs of cottages appear over stone hedges lying between me and The Beacon. I listen to a conversation between gulls. Single filaments of spiders' webs: stretched across the path, hanging between the rods of a cattle grid, and, when viewed from the critical angle, seen in their thousands, shimmering like frost, a silken blanket, suspended over the tussocks of a field.
Again I go only as far as the first gate and turn back into the woods. On the bottom of a puddle there are mud and dead leaves, but, only adjust your vision, and the still surfaces reflect the sky and the trees.
The seasons shifted. Winter doffed its hat briefly to spring. The thin gruel of cold, grey, wet days was replaced by a world as rich as a large box of assorted chocolates.
Blue sky with a few wisps of cloud. Sunshine. An absence of wind. The gentle hissing of the surf. Starlings clustered on the telegraph wires. Again the continuous burbling of a lark, heard but not seen. A red and black butterfly dancing into, and then out of the boot of the car. A greenfinch - bright orange cap, wings splashed with yellow - pulling powder puffs of seed heads from thistles. The drone of a small plane and a motorbike suddenly exploding the silence, sharing time but in different universes than this one of mine. A cloud of linnets undulating through the air. A stone chat high on a gorse bush. A wren clinging, tail cocked, to a brown stem of cow parsley.
Fiona (grey hair cut in a bob), Barry (bearded) and Katie the black cocker spaniel who told me they walk the path regularly. We had never met before, but today our lives touched before continuing their separate trajectories.
The roofs of cottages appear over stone hedges lying between me and The Beacon. I listen to a conversation between gulls. Single filaments of spiders' webs: stretched across the path, hanging between the rods of a cattle grid, and, when viewed from the critical angle, seen in their thousands, shimmering like frost, a silken blanket, suspended over the tussocks of a field.
Again I go only as far as the first gate and turn back into the woods. On the bottom of a puddle there are mud and dead leaves, but, only adjust your vision, and the still surfaces reflect the sky and the trees.
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