Rebel waves

Right across the beach, the waves scoop at stones, make an edge like on a linen tablecloth, napkins to match. Tiny coves, hill held, curve washed. Wave beats are sculpting a line of hollows and rises, as regular as a crochet thread loops and pulls a way through and along.

And in the beach-long lulling comes a sense of racing and suddenly, the horses have run wild and spilled out to dip and delve through a deeper valley that sends the foam flying skyward.

Right now, behind this wall, out of the ruthless wind, the sun surprises me. Look - no gloves, no shivering, no cringe, no hunch. Too good to miss, an hour writing here before the fall back to freezing.

I love the temporary lagoon out at the wave edge, shaped like kohl around an Egyptian eye. Wave throw. Sea spill. Hurl pool. The sun hits it, shows it to be precious yellow metal polished to blinding mirror edges. The water drops, falls, fades into the stones, shrinks into all the in between spaces, drains away, leaves just a wet shine.

Two kids lie down just there, arms stretched out in the brief sun bask. Voices are lost in the surf roar. They refuse to get up. Right at the lip. They lie in wait for rebel waves.

Blue pumpkin

Too much time spent indoors this weekend. My first experience ever of being iced in, house bound. Tempting to take a tray and slide down the hill into town on it, hopefully grinding to a halt before the main seafront road. But how to get back home?

The camping shop has some crampons on display in their window and I was wondering how many pairs they might have sold as stocking fillers. How to test your first ever set of crampons now that the ice is gone?

I made pumpkin soup, used the last one grown on the allotment last Summer. I took some shots before I cooked it and then got a bit creative with my software. So, here is my favourite shot taken of the lovely textured bit that forms the base.

Thanks for reading my blog and for all the comments and friendship over the last year. It wouldn't be as much fun without you.

Wishing everyone a very Happy Christmas and a wonderfully creative 2010! Ax

Light blast

We are looking out at a Christmas card scene today. So very beautiful, especially if you don't have to go anywhere.

Pink and orange light bounces round the house. It's a treat to be able to see what I'm doing in this light blast. Tonight, I'm sure it's going to stay lighter a bit longer - another treat so close to the shortest day of the year.

And outside my window, a bird we don't usually see in towns -

Day tripper

a Fieldfare harvests

the last from the vine.

Better

I knew it before I opened my eyes. Light was bouncing off the angles in the house where the sun never reaches. Opening the curtains, the morning roared in operatic, arms embracing the stage in pink and yellow beams that pushed away the white.

Better.

The urge is to be out. I'm pacing the room like a dog that hasn't had a run. I am there already as I drink my tea, eat some fruit, watch the clouds race each other away from the dawn.

I am there already as I run down the hill, hear the breaking of waves like breath across the odd rocking of crushed beer cans, past the splat of yesterday's strewn papers and the patient sweeping of wide brooms that mark their route with scratchy parallel lines.

184%

Chilling news at the weekend when it was reported that Britain saw an average rainfall of 184% in November. Sadly, we all know where the trouble spots were and what wreckage ensued for the people living there, but I would be interested to know what the highest measurements in that study were.

Far South, we have come off lightly. Having said that, I have never seen so many coats dripping over the bath or in the hallway or so many wet shoes in a row by the radiator since I was a child. I don't ever remember looking out at the rain like this every day, hoping for a break in the deluge so I can dash to the post box or to the station.

At the point of not being able to stand being stuck indoors a moment longer, I've taken many walks in the rain along the deserted beach in recent weeks, coming home to add my coat to the dripping collection. However, this morning was bright and blue and so I went for a beach walk without a raincoat on and was able to sit in the sun and do my writing for a couple of hours of bliss. Warm enough, too without hat or gloves.

The high tides have thrown many weeds to shore that I've never seen here before and some of the colours have been startling, especially on those dark days when I was walking in the half blind of driving spray.

The following shot - sorry can't get the focus any better - reminded me of cranberry colours and rich darks of old wood. And look at those those inky blues.

So this is where I sat today, in the glare of a precious morning. What I like best of all - writing somewhere outdoors and interesting. Happy happy happy.

As I turned to leave and come home for lunch and work, I thought I saw the best bit. I just love these shadows from the promenade railings.

And as I packed my notebook and pen and camera away into my bag, I saw the notice on the bench that I had been leaning back on -

Now, just a few hours later, no surprises that it's throwing it down with rain again. But in terms of being a good day, I would give today more than 184%.

And in the Winter roar

"And in the Winter roar, I dreamt of Blackthorn blossom...."

Flashquake publishes a collection of short fiction, nonfiction, poetry and artwork. I have a nonfiction prose piece chosen to appear in the Winter edition.

You'll need to scroll down the page, but you can read "Blackthorn" here.

Fiddle

Beneath the fire of varnish

her voice still held

the memory

of the play of a gale

across a creel of branches.