a walk on the 26th

December 27, 2010

A small field near Castle Farm at Winchelsea Beach. We came by here last July when a special event was held at Wind Rose. The path leads directly passed the pools made by gravel extraction . . .

 . . . the colonies of birds of all types are standing on the large island plate of ice in the middle of the water.  . . .

 . . and people and families are doing what they like doing on Boxing Day.

Beautiful light at 2pm, the sea is like an oyster shell . . .

Wading waist high

through the waves

I’m in with it

 In with the birds

Sky larking

The rabbits in love.

It is the hottest day

Of this summer

And I am the sun.

In this ocean

This spit of water

A honey bee drowns.

I watch her colours bleed

To be my grandma’s embroidery

For her boy Tom,

A life lived on the wing.

Honeybee screams

“I am afraid”

I reach in

Lift her finished body to my lips

And blow her away.

I am alive

I am alive

I am still alive. Angie Biltcliffe  Winnie Beach

At the Mary Stanford Lifeboat Building  , the wreathes add a festive touch to the very modest facade but the wreaths are for remembrance and respect – poppies from November 11th. 17 lives were lost when the lifeboat went to help a ship in distress about 80 years ago. No one returned and the building was left without disturbance for many, many years. The families of those drowned couldn’t deal with the experience of visiting and entering the building.It was left  just as the men left it, with their coats hanging on pegs and their boots and shoes below. 

The willows are gleaming today  . .

 . . and the seed heads of Old Man’s Beard have retained their puffy nature even after days of snow and frost . . .

 . . and back at Wind Rose, we take a look at Angie’s hive and see that others are grazing away too . .

  

 . . back across the stiles, over streams and through fields. 

a walk on the 25th

December 27, 2010

A perfect Christmas Day with some of those who are the most important to me and the weather as wonderful as it could be.

Wandering along the front passed the little weather station, we look at the climatic information that someone never fails to adjust on a daily basis – even today . . . . the figures, of course, reflect Hastings and history!

Others are out and about doing what they like . . . .

 . . . and the gulls, herring and black headed, and the turnstones are doing what they like too, all undisturbed . . .

 . . . and we turn to look at this view on our way up the East Cliff to the Country Park . . .

 . . hardly a soul around on the cliff top – frosty underfoot and glimpses of the buds opening on the gorse – ethereal and quite magical. Scrub oaks have seeded where the cliff slopes down to encompass the gills – streams and the damp loving vegetation that thrives in the sheltered valleys . . .

 . . and the view to the Firehills in the east. Wonderful hummocks of twiggy vegetation nestle like warm, brown pillows . . .

A thousand miles beyond this sun-steeped wall
Somewhere the waves creep cool along the sand,
The ebbing tide forsakes the listless land
With the old murmur, long and musical;
The windy waves mount up and curve and fall,
And round the rocks the foam blows up like snow,–
Tho’ I am inland far, I hear and know,
For I was born the sea’s eternal thrall.
I would that I were there and over me
The cold insistence of the tide would roll,
Quenching this burning thing men call the soul,–
Then with the ebbing I should drift and be
Less than the smallest shell along the shoal,
Less than the sea-gulls calling to the sea.  Sara Teasdale  Sea Longing

Snaking back to the Old Town via a steep descent through another gill depression formed by fast flowing stream, a glimpse of  the graveyard of All Saints is a strong visual element. Quiet now.

Down Tackleway and Swaines Passage into All Saints Street . . . this house is simply called Pub View and always puts on a good show for passers by. Such commitment!

 

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