turned on a beautiful penultimate day for us.
Sad on the bus to see an elderly man talking quietly but angrily to himself all the way, while the beautiful downs flowed by on the right and the beautiful beautiful sea passed on the left.
After eating a final archetypal cheese scone (though like all archetypes, they are not quite what they were) it was time to wander past the respectable houses and then the edge of the marshes, glimpsing towards the chalk.
The bay was draughty rather than stormy; even so the spray was flying from the prom, and the lucid (and literal) aquamarine turned ominous as soon as the sun left it.
A lifeboat station shop yielded second-hand books (a rash purchase at this moment) and a sugar fix. On the bus, the downs flowed on the left and the sea passed on the right.
one instalment of an indefinite journey. On this basis it could be a long one.
And yet the sea was calm.
Mindless after heavy reading, simultaneously watching hail slither down the conservatory roof and watching the sea from the bridge of a ferry trundling on its route, drinking tea, hitting the refresh button at half-minute intervals.
Jet skis flicked in and out of view, in and out of the wake, playing the fool, sometimes only deducible by the lines of their own tiny wakes. Inbound container ships leapt past. Smokers risked the outside deck for a single frame. Black shower clouds loomed. The wake was lacy and beautiful on the smooth water, the buoys came up, the wake shrank and vanished, the ferry nosed into her berth.
I have been indulging in Cyril Hare. His trademark plots each turn on some legal clause or condition, and his settings are an austere wartime or post-war England. Interestingly, this and An English Murder include various refugees and displaced persons in the cast of characters; does this reflect what post-war society really was like, or is it political correctness of the time, or just a taste for the exotic?
Small triumph: I did guess the murderer, though not the motive.
Outside, dealing with neglected pots. I had to cut this one off, and the plant lost big chunks of root, poor thing.
The wildlife is gratifying but reluctant to pose for portraits. A slow-worm tucked itself down into a warm spot:
I craned agonisingly over the water (newts are worth hirpling for) looking for small slitherings and turnings. There they were, in pairs and small clumps. One pair was seriously interested – at least he was interested, though perhaps she was not. But they were shy, and ducked when the camera came out.
The hammering gales have dropped back. (Click thumbnail for gallery)
although it was quite a pretty sea. I provided myself with a sturdy driftwood plodge prodder and went fossicking for plodge along the cliff line.
The sandstone was not useful
and nor was the iron.
Prospecting marks definitely are useful at decision time; I saw one or two puzzled faces as I walked backwards down the beach making them.
The colours are tempting, but too knobbly to collect.