Archives for the month of: August, 2013

The rain came from the south and I watched it from inside my jacket. It dissolved the horizon, threw spangles on the sea and spattered my hood like space dust. It’s a lovely thing rain, when it’s not been around for a while and you’re standing on the beach in a new coat.

Rain WalkSummer smelled different, of tarmac and earth and wet blackberry grass. Sea thrift and campion and foxgloves have gone to wet brown husks but the parma-violet-heather was new and the earth shone red. The day darkled but colours glowed moody and rich, spray soaked the stone cairns built by kids on the pebble ridge, and cobwebs were gorse chandeliers. The steel grey sea got brisk and frisky and up rose a black backed gull, soaring over the cliffs, flying the wind, sailing the squalls.

A new raincoat is lovely till you wear it up the hills with a backpack. That’s when I feel like a warm-wet-salt-plastic-lump of Happy Shopper cheese, lost like laundry in the murk of my bag.


We ran out of gas and had long evenings outside, cooking on fire. The stream was quiet, the birds were quiet, the world so very green and the air thickly sunk. We thought we could see the plants vibrate and wondered if the windows would be jungle-dark when we woke and we’d have to slash through creepers to get out.

DragonsThey were grubby happy smoke dusks, watching the ash light and embers.

Time became fire time, waiting for water to boil, sausages to burst, courgettes to char, we baked a cake on the grille with blackcurrrants and raspberries pushed in and burst juicy. In the mornings mist-dissolved-light fizzed round the bean towers, we made coffee in the storm kettle and camp stove porridge.

If we hadn’t run out of gas would we have seen the dragons growing?