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| Morning beach & distant sea |
The small forgotten things about travel come back – the rattle of the suitcase wheels, lifting it up onto the escalator, in the train station.
First day, I knew from the weather forecast that it was going to rain, so I and my companion took the bus to Alnwick and the marvellous Barter Bookshop, in the former train station. (My idea.)
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| with quotations from Baudelaire, among others |
Then to Alnwick Gardens. (My companion’s idea, not mine.) The cherry orchard is impressive, wide swings among the trees and the winding paths covered with a litter of blossom. No one on the swings, in the rain, the damp seats unappealing. But on a sunny day? Swinging among the cherry blossom.
Reflection on water surface, with coloured lights
A long and complex walk from Alnwick, a path, a bridge over a stream, another path, then it meets up with a track (bridlepath), downhill towards the road. A short distance walk along the road then off onto another bridlepath, to the stream (it’s called Deepford and I fear we will have to wade). But no, at a place called Stepping Stones, there they were, round discs, perfectly formed and spaced out evenly, flat-topped, faux stone cement circles, like very large counters in a game of draughts. 
After that, a path following the river on the other side. Two miles to Lesbury, the sign says. I don’t know how many miles we’ve walked already or how many hours. Miles and hours in the rain (I hold the unsteady umbrella aloft) and wind, both of which are now increasing. Some way along this path we pass under the railway viaduct. And shortly after that, a path to Hipsburn, a suburb of Alnmouth. Gott sei gepriesen! Only another mile or so to home!
It didn’t rain for the next two days, but there was always an exorbitantly bitter wind, whether the sun was out or the clouds massed across the sky. First day was the bus to Craster and walk to Dunstanburgh Castle,
then the path by the sea.
The local bus rattles long the narrow roads, jumping and sliding round the bends, an impatient cat. Bumps and shakes. Rattles and rolls. Time goes topsy-turvy, in a rhythm of its own. Beats its wings like a high-flyer, circles, pauses, changes partners. And the band plays on.
The following day was a trip to Bamburgh, and walk along the beach to Seahouses.
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Sitting outside in the evening, with a view over the estuary.
At first the sun is out, then a big grey cloud comes over. ‘Risky’ says someone coming up the hill, glancing up at the slow-moving fat and heavy clouds. ‘But if it makes you feel better, it’s pouring down south.’
I feel better. I’ve purchased chocolate and postcards from the village shop. There is actually not a freezing wind blowing in my face though I’ve been consistently cold for two days (except when asleep) and it’s tiring, the effort of fighting against the cold.
The sea – its thudding, thumping on rocks or shore, glissando up sandy beaches, and smacking into sea-surface, wave upon wave. Its storm of noise, sun out, wind behind us, was the only time I was warm. The sea on Bamburgh beach a deep cobalt blue,
while on our own beach at Alnmouth, it is paler, and further away, reflecting evening clouds on the wet sand.
Here, there’s a view of the estuary below, a silver surface, with a company of boats.
When the trains pass in the distance, after dark, their carriages lit up, they seem so high up, they’re trains travelling through the sky, through the clouds, quite separate from the earth, ethereal and elevated trains, beyond the reach of human landscape, human problems. And in the night, the sound of one train, rattling and thumping on the rails. The attitudonal train, the midnight blues train, trans-valley trans-melodic train, thip-thumping across the viaduct.
Now the sun comes out, the water glitters and rays streak along the slate-grey clouds.
The horizon cloud has turned into an anvil and the sun shines on its biscuit-crumbly edge. Anvil arms spread wide, the cloud floats on. The estuary trip-ripples, heading for the sea. On this beach, mostly the shells are whole, are perfect, pearl-white, pearl-pink and patterned with grey-blue. All the little creatures they have hosted all long gone, but these hard and colourful homes lie on beaches, smoother ad smoother, lightened by water and wearing and sand. Time is always present – look it says, see how I never go away no vanishing into past, no hugger-mugger impatience jostling with queueing crowds for future, it’s not at all like that. I am always here – see – hold out your hand and touch mine (damp from the ocean and gritty with sand), that is my nature, my being, my life. On the sea shore you will always find me here, you’ll never be without me, never be alone.
A silver pencil train slides along the middle of the distant hill. Such silence. Yet in the night, such noise and clatter like a dream that shakes you, trying to wake you up.
The anvil has broken up into a shower of sparks, all crazy lit up by the sunlight. Behind the sparks, a gauzy curtain. Behind this veil, a churny furnace that we see as a great light and feel so thankful for this distant fire, falling warm on our faces.
Here it comes, billowing bright pushing the curtains aside, the froth and lace of clouds, bright in the sky, surrounded by a thicket of blue and dazzling empty space around it. Our sun. Sole, sole nostra.
The starlings are warbly-porbly birds, their calls like bubbling wine interspersed with slices of lemon – wooo-whistle – sharp-tang taste. They crowd the tree tops looking out for sunlight, their ritual of farewell. How could the sun go down without all the birds wishing it well? No hesitancy here, just love, sinking lower and lower in the sky.
The church clock tinkles and reminds, with an occasional dropped note, too shy to toe the line of melody.
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