On St Aldhelm's Head

[puddleshark]

Please be kind enough to ignore any weird spelling or grammar...

A very rough few days. Not Covid (or, if it is Covid, the test isn't picking it up). But felt a little better yesterday. Well enough to sit up and watch some k-drama in the evening. Still not hungry. But I thought a gentle walk today might reset things: my appetite, my state of mind. Illness makes things overwhelming: the emptiness of the house, a government of circus clowns (the really scary variety), Boris Johnson. Who is flying back from the Caribbean, ready to be begged to save the country. (Not even Trollope could have come up with Boris Johnson).



So I headed down to the coast for some sea air. Not a brisk overhill, underhill walk, but a slow amble along the level chalk track that runs out to St Aldhelm's Head, taking time to look at clouds and puddles and dry stone walls.



In summer, this is skylark country - larksong all the way. The larks have stopped singing now, though they're still skylarking about overhead. Flocks of sparrows and goldfinches and starlings are busy in the wayside weeds.



On dry stone walls, the Old Man's Beard is getting hairy, and the ivy is in flower.






Lichen and fossils among in the half-tumbled dry stone walls.


A roe deer & two hares.

Quite surprised to find the stubble fields teeming with pheasants. At a time when poultry owners are being told to keep their birds indoors to stop the spread of bird flu, it seems it's business as usual for the shooting industry.


St Aldhelm's Head in sight. Glimpses of the sea through gaps in the hills.


To the right of the picture, two brave souls on the coast path. It is a path of many steps.


Quarry country.


Coastguard Cottages.


St Aldhelm's chapel looking preternaturally solid against the grey cloud,on the morning after a storm, when everything distant was hazy and half seen. Inside: darkness and damp, escape from the wind, centuries old graffiti on the stone piers.






Memorial to radar research carried out on here between 1940-1942.



By the cliff edge, the wind still gusting. The sea still choppy from yesterday's gale, and, now the skylarks are no longer singing, the roar of the waves at the foot of the cliffs drowns out all other noise. White horses outside Kimmeridge Bay.



In the distance, the sea still blue; but at the foot of the cliffs, brown and roiling.



I started to feel a little wobbly at this point. Not ideal when you're standing on a cliff. So ventured no further. Sat sensibly on a wooden bench, feeling like the child in one of those last century children's novels who has been packed off to the countryside to convalesce after an illness - only without the farmhouse tea element. There are always farmhouse teas in those novels.

I don't think we do those things any more in this country: convalescence and farmhouse teas. Or maybe those things are reserved for the aristocracy these days?

But I can pretend, right. Tucked my hat into one pocket to stop it going off an awfully big adventure. Ate some chocolate, though without the appropriate enjoyment. But the clouds sweeping over the sea, and the wind, and the roar of the waves, these things certainly made me feel like I was much, much better.





Then back, very slowly the way I came, along the chalk track. Overhead, garrulous young ravens playing follow-the-leader with adults.



Had forgotten to factor in the drive home when I set out, so I'm rather tired now. But I think I feel better for the fresh air. Just wish I could enjoy a nice cup of tea... My life pretty much revolves around tea normally, but I can't drink it at all at the moment, and it's hard without tea.

Comments

[nikonf3]

It’s nice that you still have the beautiful countryside in spite of illness and even more sickening politics. Also it’s kind of you guys to provide a few moments distraction from the trainwreck in our own country.

[puddleshark]

You're welcome! Though I don't remember personally signing up for the bit where we act as protagonists in a Cautionary Tale for all other countries...