Choppy water and lashing rain. That's no reason to stay at home.The contrasts of an English summer and it's all good.
So, the quay is hidden away. Only the locals use it.
Three men sit on a breakwater each with a length of string. On one end of which is a small bag made of a scrap of net curtain. They whirl the string for momentum and sling the bag into the bouncing waves. There will be a bit of bacon in the bag, for they are catching crabs.
Choppy water and lashing rain.
Out come the wide necked flasks, spoons ,knives and plates. The box of cold butter pats sits atop the dash. I have made homemade chicken soup and some crusty soda bread. It is good. We savour and slurp. The weather makes it all the more warming.
The rain blows away, rolls round the sky and settles across the water for a little while.
I jump onto the shingle and wander along the tide line. A bright clear blob gleams in this light. It is marked as if fronds of fern sit inside. Its a jellyfish! I call the saxophonist who sardonically speculates on how long it can last. We both agree that it is beautiful
I wash the spoons in the tide and we run to the car as the wind blows the wet back.
The landscape is all green, deep green and flashes of distant water.
We drive down a road where the trees meet each other overhead. High and sculpted its a tree cathedral.
Suddenly there's a shout.Some one is very angry with us. Up whirrs the shouter. A furious woodpecker. He rises like a clockwork toy.Up and up in a dead straight line.Shrieking and swearing as he goes.
The soup and soda bread has made me drowsy. So the saxophonist drives, I dream and the world is washed clean by the returning rain.
