Seashore, Amble Dunes

The tide looks fully out. Under the clear blue evening sky the north sea on the Northumberland coast is probably as smooth as it could ever be. Gentle waves only about three to four inches high gently lap the shore. We are here on a mid-August evening. Soft sand stretches in either direction as far as we can see with Coquet Island in front of us, yet we are almost alone. Just a few other remote figures. Where is everyone on this gloriously warm evening after a beautiful summers day?

Birds: oystercatchers, curlew, terns, gulls, cormorants, a couple of dark things flying that aren't cormorants, a small flock of 15 or so small white things flying close over the water to the rocks as the tide comes in and probably a few other unidentified waders or similar. I am reminded of the many times my father and I used to watch similar birds on the estuaries of north Wales when I was a teenager.

The tide turns and the rocks, covered in slippery brown and bright green seaweeds, are quickly submerged again. The sun makes one last peek out from beneath cloud over the Northumberland hills to the west and the dunes cast their shadows over the beach. The expanse of seaward horizon before us seems immense, reaching from Dunstanburgh Castle in the north to the power station chimney at Lynemouth in the south - a distance of approximately 25 miles. 

This is one of the few places where I have ever seen my daughter be almost spellbound by the beauty of the natural world.

Bamburg Castle Dunes

It is hard work climbing steeply up through soft, dough-like warm sand away from the seashore. Behind me there is the gentle swooshing of waves running up the shore and the chatter and shouts of high-spirited children enjoying beach-side freedom. Around me the breeze ripples though the dune grasses. The well-worn path dips away between the mounds of sand and within a few metres the sounds behind me disappear and I enter a place of complete calm - shielded from the noises from the beach and the grasses -  I am in a different world. I follow the path inland and down though the dunes. There are people here, but not many. It is a gloriously sunny, warm August day, and the miles of sandy beach have only perhaps a hundred or so assorted people and dogs as far as I can see. My wife comments that a friend in Cornwall has commented on Facebook about a beach being rammed with people. Here, in early afternoon, the path in front of me to the beach is often empty with just a few tourists passing by every few minutes.

The wind catches in a few scattered sycamore bushes and the grasses. Ragwort, hawksbit, hairbells, rosebay willowherb, clover, common centaury, wild thyme, a solitary carline thistle, snowberry, a few varied butterflies - white and browns, grasshoppers, a pipit?, tiny sun-bleached snailshells, black ants and flies, thorny ground hugging bushes with bright red berries (sea buckthorn), hawthorn, some rather ragged orange fungi and a yellow and black striped cinnabar moth caterpillar on some ragwort. There is not a huge variety of colourful dune flowers here. I recall some dunes on the Gower coast that I am sure are carpeted in floral displays at this time of the year. White rosebay willowherb seedlings float past me in the wind. Clouds of them errupt from the plants down in a damp boggy patch. Occasional heads appear above the dunes as people walk the varied paths.

The dunes form an interesting barrier landscape between the beach on my left and its people and dogs and castle, car park and village on the right. It is this edgeland that draws me to itself today. A place to sit and rest for a while and take in something of the landsacpe.

As I approach the land side edge of the dunes the vegetation begins to change drammatically. I first notice it with the presence of blackberries, then nettles, knapweed, horsetail, more varied flora and a more dense covering of grasses and general land-ward plants. I could have spent ages looking and writing about the transition between the dunes and the landside vegetation. There was no point in doing so though, it was just good to observe the change in ecology and landscape and leave a scientific investigation for other places.

I Am Still Here

Last week we went on holiday to the Gower coast in South Wales. We had been there last year and this year we went back to stay in Port Eynon, just  a few minutes walk from a beautiful beach.

On leaving, I was surprised to find myself grieving over the leaving of a piece of landscape. I am fond of places in Herefordshire, but I can’t remember finding myself becoming attached to a place elsewhere to such an emotional extent. There is a coast path that leads up from just above Overton westwards along the top of the cliffs towards Mewslade  and Rhossili. I explored the area last year and recall writing a poem about the ‘Edgeland’. On one side of the path are small cornfields with high stone walls and fences that are a reminder of the small scale agricultural history that once covered much of our landscape. Then there is like a plateau of common land -sheep-grazed grass, bracken and gorse that then gives way to the limestone cliffs that drop down to the rocky sea shore below. I had heard about Paviland cave and tried to find it, but as it was tucked away in a location that required a bit of certainty about tides and sure footedness I decided not to risk the search. The cave is one of the best known prehistoric burial sites in the country and so I sensed a deep sense of mystery and history in the area.

I took no photographs of the path, which I now regret but, really, there is not much to  focus on. It is just a wide path that carries wandering souls along an edgeland between the land and sea. It has been a week since I left it, but yet I feel part of me is there part of me has felt a deep sense of belonging to that place. It was a place of peace; a place away from the intense concentration of computer illustration work; a place away from the demands of modern living. A place of freedom. 

I know I have only visited the place on warm sunny days in the summer so my experience of it is slightly biased to the positive, but perhaps carrying this intense memory of the place is a subtle lesson to me. Perhaps there is something I should be learning or remembering here. The words that came to me are “I am still here”.

The tiredness and headaches in the first few days of being back at work are a reminder of how draining sitting in front of a computer screen can be. I spend much of my day focusing in on the digital necessities and interests that fill my life. On holiday I longed to just walk and explore and free my body of the confines of my desk and sketch with freedom and my genuine personal creativity. With little spiritual inspiration around me I have not had much on which to focus and I seem to just be waiting for something to revive me again. “I am still here” is perhaps a subtle whisper from the Nature that inspires me. It held me close for a while and now we have parted. I must not loose sight of things that inspire me and should seek out ways to enliven my spirit particularly now that the summer will soon draw to a close and the year will start to turn to harvest and autumn.

Seashore

I am standing on the shore. Waves gently wash over the tumbling pebbles. Too and fro, in a rhythm of sound and voices that have sung continuously since their creation on this cosmic anomaly. Looking around I see the shore extending away from me - a place of constant movement and change between the land and the sea. The air is fresh and the water unpolluted, as it will remain so for millions of years to come. For I stand alone. The only one. There is no-one else, that is all to come. The pebbles are rounded and well worn, precious minerals gradually being eroded and dissolved into the sea. They have only just begun their journey of transformation into the web of life. I have not yet been created. Man has not yet been born, and yet here on this sea shore I feel the beginnings of his birth. Here, where water, air and earth meet life will begin its epic journey. If I were able to foresee, and with control over the deep creative energy that embodies the earth, would I allow the evolution those that would destroy this fragile creativity. I know what will happen to this place.

Picking up a pebble I hold it in my hand. It shines in the bright sunlight and its strong colours reflect the untouched beauty around me. One day this pebble may become part of me and we will touch again.

Stonechat Land

Sketchy notes made whilst on the Gower in South Wales

Along the darkening cliffs towards the Worm's Head at Rohossili. Blue-grey sea to the left with clear, almost cloudless sky above; and to the right the windswept purple heather and gorse of the cliffs and cloud covered distant downs. The developing edge of grey clouds clouds above reflect edge of the cliffs below. And along this edge in front of me the bright orange sun reveals itself on the horizon. Its dazzling light a brilliant intrusion upon the grey landscape.

In the shelter of a rock high above the rocks and waves I watch the sun slowly slip behind a band of horizon cloud. The white quarter moon hangs out to sea: a celestial companion to the sun whose developing redness paints the cloud base. I am reminded of the ending to the original Wicker Man film. Now it has gone and I feel more alone now - just an occasional gull floats by and the grasses waving in the wind. Alone, to walk back through the bracken and restless stonechats.

I feel as if I have been here before. Possibly, many years ago and my memory can't recall details.

In an Edgeland

Sketchy notes made whilst on the Gower in South Wales

I'm in an edgeland
I'm in my edgeland
where the cliffs give way
and the purple heather and yellow gorse
reveal the black rock
and churning foam

I'm in an edgeland
I'm in my edgeland
where life meets death
where light meets dark
where the land reveals
its ancient rocks
and the restless sea
guided by the moon

I'm in an edgeland
I'm in my edgeland
where all behind me is left
and I can go no longer
and further forward.
This place tests my awareness
of life and possible death
and as the light fades
beneath the grey sky
the brighter horizon take with it
the memories of the day

I'm in an edgeland
I'm in my edgeland
where the cliffs are ragged
and the tumbling rocks
reveal unsteady ground.
I'm on my own
I must take care
before the night comes again

I'm in an edgeland
I'm in my edgeland
where I want my pain
to be like wave pounded rocks:
edges removed, roughness eroded
and soul massaged by the waves.
In isolation I sit
upon the close knit earth and herbs
I want to sing my song
to the music of the waves

I'm in an edgeland
I'm in my edgeland
sheltered by the cliffs
yet open to wildest elements
I'm open to their being.
The deep rocks reveal their history
the water of life is unwelcoming
and yet here I sit
listening to the landscape
and asking for its healing.
This place reveals creation
the edge is a place to be.
The edge is Divine Glory
The edge is the creation story.

Thank you

Edgeland

Sketchy notes made whilst on the Gower in South Wales

Waves, crashing against the time-worn rocks; rolling pebbles and an on-shore breeze. White spray over ice-green water beneath a solid grey sky. Here rocks form the grassy cliffs meet the infinite horizon of distant hope. Tumbling down; weather-worn over the years to meet the white foam. the sound is rhythmic and relentless. Beyond this point I cannot go, for here safety meets danger - a landscape that is foreign to me, and one that could easily bring death. I can go no further, these rocks are a symbol of my fate: erosion, pain brokenness, darkness; cold and wet. I am on the edge and a light drizzle now begins to fall - almost imperceptible. Colour grips to the eroded rocks in the form of many flowers: yellows, lilacs, purples, pinks and white.

The eroded cliff gullies reveal deep layers of conglomerate rock beneath the soil level, perhaps 20ft down. Embedded in the rounded stones are abundant white 'snail' shells. This place is a symbol of age, landscape changes and the passing of timescales beyond our comprehension.