I am having a lazy morning before leaping off to work. As I type this there is a strange bright blue hue in the sky, after the last few days I was beginning to forget what sunshine looked like.
I can hear birds singing and the light breeze is gently caressing the blossom on my tiny morello cherry tree. It’s no good, I can’t sit here, the outdoors calls.
Enough of the ranting already, time to prove there is more than a little joy in thepigpen. A 15 minute stroll from our house is a wood.
I love woods, a closed and closeted environment which surrounds a soul in womb like comfort. The scuffle of small animals in decaying undergrowth, the song of birds stirring in the dank air to mark and guard their place. The open glades and denser thickets, such a huge variety of space in such a small area.
The patch of soft earth near badgers set to be avoided, the sudden dart of doe in undergrowth. The unexpected opening of the canopy reveals the raptor soaring overhead. The path leads to a small stream where Robin sings and cavorts at waters edge, the unexpected sight of a house.
A perfect day whatever the weather.
The cold dark sky slashed by blue,
Hard pellets of wind blown rain,
Freshening winds from North or East,
Brisk is the day breaking.
Yellow light dispels the gloom,
The rain does cease to blow,
Footpath mists in growing heat,
To dry damp earth quite slow.
Worms stir, diving deep,
Seeking cool damp places,
Aerating soil and fertilise,
To nourish us plants and all
Following our meal The One and I walked to the seafront and along the promenade. The sky was stunning, warm breezes caressing us as we wandered toward the setting sun.
The poor old pier is still hanging on. No longer linked to the land, the original entry booth is to be incorporated into Brightons new attraction, the name escapes me but it will be a metal column with a platform that goes up and down so a view of the city can be obtained. That assume’s money can be found. They couldn’t fund the pier restoration so what hope? Silly me, I forgot, it’s new and will make loads a dosh for someone.
The One thinks I am obsessed with the pier, it is true I will often take a picture of the pier when I go to Brighton,
but last night I loved the light sky blue pink, behind the pier.
This shows the now destroyed deck supports. We walked West toward Hove the setting sun was in our face, the promenade, not busy yet with summer crowds, a pleasant place to be. Normal people having an evening stroll / cycle. Even the hoody homeless squatting skating boarding sub culturite’s were out taking the sun and air. The world, at that time, in that place, exuding peace and love. Beach barbecue’s in swing (ugh burning animal fat) but good humour abounding. A street drinker wandered toward me, I recognise him. I have seen him being angrily aggressive at the sky for being there, cold and damp. Not today, drunk as a skunk, can in hand ‘Good evening’. I respond ‘Hi how’s it going’ (the English Que Pasa? perhaps). We move on.
A little further and we turn back to the station, but not before I see the rotunda has a sign beneath, “Open”, I had never seen this before, a cafe bar, open and inviting, a destination for another day.
As we walk back along the road side, motorcycles scream, cars dump their valves. The Grand still stands despite, Patrick Magee, the mayhem veiled behind the blue lighting of the facade. Will Brighton ever really forget that day and will PIRA really change its spots?
The lights, like strings of twin pearls hark back to an older age where smart ladies with their gentlemen escorts would promenade after supper, parasols idly carried for fashion. Long gone the fashion for pearls and parasols, but the evening walkers, joggers continue the tradition of post supper perambulation nonetheless.
A final look back to the Pier, with moon above and lights below;
before plunging into the little streets and backwaters of The Laines. Full of life, but not too much so tonight. The whole of Brighton seems to be dozing after the exertions of the day in full sun. Even the pubs seem quite and relaxed, no frenetic energy, rushing to the next thing, it might be better. The Seven Stars, a Jazz band warming up, alas no time to stop and listen.
back to the station and homeward bound. A stunning evening in this jewel of the south coast. Not the sort of thing I would usually say as I consider Brighton, generally, a bit of a carbuncle on the rump of the planet. Just shows how wrong you can be.
The photo’s are courtesy of my Google Nexus One.
A peaceful day, sun shining, the South Downs like a reclining venus sunning her curves in the first spring sunshine of the year.
Hunting pink abounds, there are harsh cries on the downs. Yelping harpies no longer filled with their former blood lust. Now hunt and hounds seem content to chase men not foxes. The followers follow, the hounds howl, the hunting horn calls vue halloo but the quarry is either sacks dragged by quad bikes or men in Nike running shoes, ‘just do it’.
No! Please don’t just do it. My stroll up the to the ridge was shattered by 4x4xfar driving past in convoy each blue fumed spewing monster slower, noisier and fouler smelling than the last. Once they had gone the trail was overtaken by quadbikes carrying men with overloud voices to let us know they were ‘hunting‘ (as if we hadn’t guessed, they assume my IQ matches their’s perhaps) all this traffic interspersed with lovely horses carrying less lovely humans, ‘Rather” ‘Eh What’ ‘Good show.’
At the ridge the gathering behaved as hunters have since they first started to chase foxes in this way, stirrup cups, nibbles and bearing down on the footborne peasantry to make them remove themselves from ‘Moi Laaand’ and for God‘s sake stop making the place look untidy.
The only positive was that the fox appeared not to be the main quarry of the day but a piece of foul smelling sacking dragged behind and equally foul quad bike driven by equally foul men.
Once the horse and hounds had outstripped the casual bystanders, glad handing each other at being able to take part in such a spectacular event, there is no telling what hounds found. My guess is the master of hounds took them away from the noxious sack and they probably found some living breathing creature to chase; or am I overly cynical?
Fortunately for me the hounds rode East, I was walking West. A and I left with our thoughts and stunning views across the downs to the Seven Sisters. was the white chalk really stained red? Or was that just my imagination running wild.
No, it seems it was just my imagination (queue song) …
Today was a gorgeous day. The sun finally put in an appearance about 11:30, by which time I was already on the plot. I had already managed some time planting a week or so ago and today, peas, cabbage, radishes, goji berries and raspberries are all starting to leaf. A warm day fine for a bit of fencing, merely intended to stop the raspberries hanging over the paths as they did last year.
Coloured poles placed, bunting set, old artichoke plants dug out, the end of the purple sprouting taken and rooted out. My private little world clean and tidy once again.
Afternoon sun induces torpor. Normally we would walk six miles or so, fairly brisk to try and keep the blood from clotting in the ever reducing arteries. However, today we managed 2.4 miles in 2 hours, what on earth were we doing?
We started near a pub, but dedicated to the cause of exploration we didn’t stop but passed through into the green. The sky was blue, the larks were up, sheep bleating in their pasture. Nothing disturbed the peace save the overhead buzz of a biplane, presumably taking pleasure seekers on a short flight from Shoreham Airport, the oldest in England apparently.
Having walked a mile or so we found a convenient wee bench providing views over the Downs and weald of my own saelig Sussex.
We made a new friend today, Jack. He ran to greet us with wild abandon. Sadly, too quickly he realised we 1) had no food, 2) weren’t who he thought we were 3) had no dog with us so he turned, sniffed and capered back the way he had come.
Having spent a good while gazing at the view which pictures cannot do justice to we continued passed the newly renovated Oldlands Mill.
The sun and fresh air having done their work we returned to the car before we realised the time. We emerged from the green as if returning from an enchantment, plunging once more into the traffic and chaos of a normal Saturday.
Spring has, perhaps arrived properly. This time I did manage to take a very dull picture of a clear blue sky. At these latitudes we find such sights a bit of a novelty.
It is true. Having been dark and cold all day, squally showers and a howling wind blowing a gale, spring finally arrived in this corner of our green and pleasant land at 16:20. It had gone by 16:22. The sun shone, the damp bedraggled birds cheeped and the wild flowers raised their heads to blink uncomprehendingly at the strange golden orb which appeared, at that very instant, in the heavens.
fromthepigpen 