Field Notes
We’d often walk for miles along the coast, or so it seemed, although I'm sure I'm imagining more than I can ever accurately recall. Continue reading
On a ten mile meandering walk.
This landscape, rough pasture, flooded fields, flashes forming where ground is subsiding. Skirting a lake where the path should be.
On a turning tide.
On a turning tide.
Watching sand slipping back under the sea.
Young black headed gulls feeding on the shoreline.
A Thoughtful Gesture
eventeen wooden benches clamped to concrete bases, set along the gravel path. They all share the same view; causeway, island, lighthouse, off shore wind turbines.
Walking the Dog
Remaining bitterly cold, with raw easterly winds continuing to bring in scattered blustery snow showers from the North Sea… Not the best of days to be out, but the weather rarely stopped him. It’d be,…
Relics
Going for a stroll, that’s what we did, come fair or foul weather. The dog needed his walk, whatever. And this was the game. Stop. Close your eyes. Tell me what you hear. The wind…
Low Tide
Picking up a pebble, round and smooth, sand clinging to its wet surface. Rubbing it between fingers and thumb, I drop it into my coat pocket where it will probably stay. The promenade’s quiet today, the small skate park, busy.
On A Winter Beach
Scouring, wind whipping sand, stinging eyes, nose, mouth. Grey churning sea. Deafening.