No respite from the North Westerly blowing down Hurst Spit this morning. At the end of a warm September though, it’s hardly keen; not yet cutting; just inclined to rifle through your pockets if you stand too still. Walking back, into the head-wind, the sun reflects off the white cliffs of Old Harry Rocks, off the white reefs of P&O’s redundant fleet. Out where the tide is rippling over the Shingles Bank, streaks of white topped waves show where shallows lurk, but on the shore, the surf is barely up, with the gentle rocking motions of a sea unstirred.
Small pools of birds ripple away at my approach, knot, plovers, dunlin. On the lake side, a small raptor rides the slope lift, keeping low; my mind says ‘hobby’, but I’m unsure. More certain of the pair of ravens that watch me intelligently, wondering if taking flight is worth all the trouble, before flapping lazily, pretending not to care.
There’s negotiation at the bridge now. Anti-viral concern gives us pause, like the sudden introduction of mini-roundabouts. I cross, swiftly, aware of the ticking probing beaks of more plovers, unaware of our concerns, thinking only of the next stone turned. My hands, my face, are cool, but a warmth suffuses me.
