August 21, 2011
23 degrees and a lovely sunny Sunday is what we were promised by the weather forecast. So, a trip to Dungeness to swim in the shallows and drift around with the seals perhaps? None of these events occurred – more like sheltering down (in fact lying prostrate to keep out of the wind) under the shingle slopes watching lines of fishermen togged out in winter clothing. Porpoises were surfacing and diving and terns gracefully looping to only just dip their beaks in the water. Some shags too and maybe a sighting of a big dipper. The jolly little train toots and hoots as it passes through the crossing – everyone waves – adults become children again!
Yes, he did catch something. Not mackerel, plentiful in the sea here this weekend, and not bass but surmised it could have been whiting. He also had a friend . . .
A few folks wandering around the front of Prospect Cottage so the poem by Donne that fills the southern facade
Busie old foole, unruly Sunne,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us ?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run ?
Sawcy pedantic wretch, goe chide
Late schoole boyes and sowre prentices,
Goe tell Court-huntsmen that the King will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices ;
Love, all alike, no season knowws nor clyme,
Nor houres, dayes, moneths, which are the rags of time . . . .
Thou, Sunne art halfe as happy as wee,
In that the world’s contracted thus ;
Thine age askes ease, and since thy duties bee
To warme the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere ;
This bed thy centre is, these walls thy spheare. John Donne The Sonne Rising
And now at 6.30 pm the sun does what we were promised for the morning and SHINES.