The forecast said rain, a glance out of the window said otherwise, so, after a knocked together lunch from yesterday’s leftover mushroom and courgette stew, tarted up with some spinach, pasta and smoked paprika, we headed out in the car for the coast.
The outgoing tide attracted flocks of waders, gulls, oyster catchers, black-headed gulls, and some I haven’t yet been able to identify, all running along the shore at the receding waters.
Inland as we turned from the beach towards the marina we passed pochards, tufted ducks and more black headed gulls and what I think could be a Bean Goose.
I stopped to talk to another dog walker with a pair of young Tibetan Terriers before turning back to complete the circuit by retracing my steps, returning to the shore.
The firs that taper into twigs and wear
The rich blue green of summer all the year,
Softening the roughest tempest almost calm,
And offering shelter ever still and warm
To the small path that travels underneath,
Where loudest winds almost as summer’s breath
Scarce fan the weed that lingers green below,
When others out of doors are lost in frost and snow,
And sweet the music trembles on the ear
As the wind suthers through each tiny spear,
Makeshifts for leaves, and yet so rich they show
Winter is almost summer where they grow.
The Wood is Sweet – poems of Clare selected by David Powell
Published by the John Clare Society