writingsof a writing man
A walk along the tide lineWhen I woke this morning and poked my head out of the window a cold, grey, damp day greeted me. And fog. Not a real fog. A half-hearted fog, drooping about the hills, dripping discontentedly from the trees, eddying and streaking like a water colour left out in the rain. So, my morning started off in slow motion and didn't get much faster. And by the time I got out for my morning walk, I was much later than normal. About once a week I like to trudge along the tide line at Blue Anchor Bay.The bay is a magical place no matter what the weather, and I'm an inveterate flotsam collector, so I satisfy a grab-bag of interests by taking this trip. This morning, the only other person there was a solitary fisherman, right down at the eastern end, by the cliffs and near the rock fall. I felt crowded, so I walked the other way. The sea fog was still about, and I was enclosed in a moving bubble of local clarity that trudged companionably along beside the surf with me. The sea was quiet, waiting for something to stir it into action. "You and me both, missus," I murmured. Underfoot the shingle crunched and slid. I moved to the line of wrecked seaweed and discarded ends of plastic hawser that lay where the waves had left it. If only I could paint that accidental mix of organic and inorganic shapes and colours. This is where the best treasure is to be found by the follower of flotsam. The best shells, the prettiest stones, small gems of washed up wreckage tangled and tied in the long uneven trail. Pick. Poke. My stick comes in handy here. Under every heap there's something of note. This morning, there was a strange harvest of those half-length ball pens they have in mail-order stores. I counted seventeen, so there must have been many more. I wonder how they came there? Sometimes wreckage floats from dumped cargo for thousands of miles. Or it might just have taken the trip down the channel from Bristol. And countless pieces of bamboo, about eight inches in length. What strange source jettisoned this out of place cargo, I wonder? Bamboo from China and ball pens from, well, China probably. The fabulous fruits of far Cathay. And, of course, the things I'm really looking for. Stones. Pebbles. Small pieces of quartz that I can pick up and carry for a while, fingering and feeling, nestling in my hand. The best of them find their way into my poacher's pocket and, eventually, into glass jars on my shelving back home. I found three lovely pieces of rose quartz and one of a green-blue type resembling the very best Stilton cheese. No great treasures today. Just the ordinary delights waiting for the keen eyed. And then, the strangest device, cast in black rubber, about a hand's-breadth and length, that seemed to have been attached to a thin pole. I could tell it was manufactured, because the name was still visible. But, if form had followed function here, I could detect the significance of neither. To think that someone had designed this, others had manufactured it, some other had lost it, and then I had found it - intriguing and purposeless. I brought it home. Too ugly to keep, but too interesting to discard. I'll ponder over it and then consign it to the deep on my next trip. Trudge. Poke. Trudge. Oh dear. It's getting a bit late. Two cats and one human will be lining up at home like hungry fledglings waiting for lunch. One last look around. I can make out the Brendon hills now, and see the far end of the bay. Fog obscures the Welsh coast still, but the sky over the channel is clearing and there's a hint of blue and white up there. One last poke. Turn aside a torn Dime wrapper and, yes! What's this? A tiny fragment of amber, surface scratched and misted. Or is it bottle glass? No, it feels organic and, yes, there's that faint electric tingle as it warms in my palm. Yes, it's amber, washed up here from its journey from who knows where and heaven knows when. I'll take this one home for sure. Oh yes, there must be a place for this at home.
|
||
|
|
||
|
All text, artwork and html coding, |