Some graveyards are beautiful places - mainly left alone, inhabited by wildlife; rabbits and foxes - even in the middle of a town. Shafts of sunlight through the ancient trees; flowers, wild and rampant; cherry trees full of ripening fruit. Lopsided grave markers of people long dead; untended; the lettering wearing away after hundreds of years of rain and hard weather; ivy, moss and lichen, returning to the soil. The church stands sentinel, its stained glass windows watching over the graves, no longer visited; long forgotten.
--ooOoo--
Thunder rumbled through the sky; electric blue flashes of lightning illuminating the horizon - slowly fading away as it moved along the coast.
--ooOoo--
Weekend trippers wearing garish clothes and unsuitable footwear. Strolling up and down looking into shop windows buying trash that they don't really need. Bewildered dogs with lolling tongues straining on their leads, breeds of every kind, sniffing each other warily. Children carrying crabbing buckets, dangling their lines over the harbour wall, catching the same crab over and over again.
--ooOoo--
A walk along the coastline with views so vast your eyes can't take it all in. The incoming tide filling the creeks; sea birds hovering in the wind effortlessly. Walkers pass two by two, shorts and backpacks, sturdy walking boots; serious and determined to get to their destination. Old people strolling with sticks and swollen ankles. The wind is strong out in the open, but the air is warm. Clouds are white and billowing, sailing along; everchanging. The path is edged with mustard plants, shoulder high - a river of yellow as far as the eye can see.
It is the longest day of the year and the motorbikers arrive noisily and in force on immaculate machines in full leather gear, looking hot and overdressed. Toddlers lick ice creams and babies in pushchairs squint their eyes in the glare of the bright sun. So many people of all shapes, sizes and ages, sitting on the sea wall eating their fish and chip lunches out of polystyrene cartons; gulls crying out overhead waiting for dropped food and trying to beat the starlings and ducks to their awaited prize of vinegar doused chips.
An afternoon snooze as holidaymakers drift by, their conversation rising up and into my daytime dreams accompanied by the chattering of the jackdaws sitting on the chimney pots.
--ooOoo--
Going away for a break is an essay on simple living. You can only take enough with you for a week - so you pare down. What to leave and what to take - decisions have to be made. Holidaying in England is rife with problems. Account has to be made of all types of weather - all packed into a small suitcase. In one week there was rain, strong winds, hot sun, grey skies, thunderstorms and soft breezes - sometimes muggy and sometimes cold. Clothes need to be short-sleeved, long-sleeved, thick and thin, waterproof and light, jeans and shorts, skirts and tops - to cover all eventualities.
Before packing all the clothes I like were laid out on the bed, and one by one, put back in the wardrobe - till just the essentials were left - each item able to match with the other. The thought struck me that this selection would actually see me through the whole summer - and that the clothes left behind in the drawers and wardrobe were actually surplus to requirements. Food for thought. Dare I ditch it all! No more stressing over what to wear each morning - no more sifting through piles of garments - I mean how many white T-shirts do you actually need!
--ooOoo--
A storm was brewing. Black clouds gathered and the wind gained speed. The trees trembled and shook and crows and jackdaws scattered, shaken from their roosting places. They wheeled and circled, dipped and dived - the wind blowing them according to its whim. The sky blackened, dark as pitch, angry and hostile and the flock of birds seemed to panic not knowing where to go - swerving and re-forming as if by some invisible thread holding them all together. They tried to get back into the trees but the wind had other ideas and shook them free again. Gradually the wind lessened, the storm passed and the birds returned calling to each other that it was okay. For a while though the storm caused a spectacle not to be missed.
--ooOoo--
Winding paths through trees and wildflower meadows down to the swift-flowing water. A secret sort of place where characters from Wind in the Willows would be quite happy to sit in their row boat meandering downstream. No formal gardens here just a natural kind of disorder.
--ooOoo--
Hot sun and cooling breeze. The beach - long, white and beautiful - stretching as far as the edge of the world. Surf rolling in - hissing and swooshing over the pebbles. The tide line a mass of razor shells crunching beneath your feet. The sounds are soporific and rhythmic as the water ebbs and flows - holding your gaze as it mesmerises - the sun glinting off the water dancing sunbeams like water sprites - luring you in with false promises.
Back inland a little we come across wildflower meadows alive with bees and butterflies and many species of flower. The insects ignore us as they collect pollen, oblivious to our presence - intent on their purpose they go about their business.
--ooOoo--
By the water, by the sea, in woodland, open spaces, big skies, soft clouds. Walking the headland through rivers of mustard plants - blurring into the distance. Surrounded by green fields and hedgerows; grazing pigeons and rabbits. No internet connection - no distractions - just being in the moment, recording my thoughts in the evening - taking pen to paper recalling and remembering.
--ooOoo--
We parked the car up on the heath above a pretty village. The gorse is no longer in bloom; below us a patchwork of fields, some cut for hay, others planted with crops. Further away the lagoons and saltmarsh of the reserve, sparkling water and soft mossy greens of grasses and plants. Beyond is the thin blue line of the sea on the horizon. The only sounds in the heat of the day a whitethroat singing its single note with repetitive monotony. I feel the need to record it all, everything I see. The feeling that time is running out - how many more summers will I see - how to spend my time to make it more meaningful, how to record it all when there is so much to see and feel. What should my priorities be to prolong it as long as possible.
--ooOoo--
The woods were full of colonies of foxgloves - a beautiful sight of deep rose, pale pink and white spires standing tall amongst the trunks of the pines. Later that evening a last stroll down to the quayside - our last before returning home. Dusk was falling - everywhere quiet, the streets empty but for a few other strollers. A few sea birds were still cruising the harbour skies but most were beginning to settle for the night. The tide now ebbing and the moored boats tilting as the sea disappeared leaving bird footprints in the soft mud.
--ooOoo--
Returning home after a hot and sticky journey, retracing the road we had taken only a week ago. The nearer we get to home the more familiar everything becomes. Walking into the garden was like an explosion of colour - during our absence nature had taken care of it all - everything just carries on whether you are there or not.
