Stormy seas at Winspit, thinking about the wreck of The Halsewell
South of The Square and Compass, there is a deep valley leading to the sea - sharp brambles line the path - ferns and docks are waist high - a hidden stream flows between tangled alders and oaks - beyond the hooks of the brambles, you can see Celtic lynchets, like worn steps on the hillside -
Cows graze upon the rich grass - their eyes are brown and troubled - there are numbered tags piercing their ears - they swing their great heads round to stare at passers by -
Dry stone walls mark the boundaries of the fields - the stones are yellowy with lichen - old man's beard is festooned over blackthorn -
Towards the sea, there are caves, narrow chambers in the rock, the homes of rare bats - an old quarry faces the sea - brave sinewy girls practice rock climbing up the jointed rock faces -
The men working here cut out galleries within the rock - wooden cranes lowered the stone down to barges, moored below the cliff -
I came here, with Anne, one wild day in January - we scrambled down the path to the rocks and stormy sea - foam lashed our faces - we could taste salt upon our tongues - waves leaped up and fell upon the barnacled slabs of Portland Stone - we stood just a few feet away from the mad icy sea -
We've swum here in the summer, slipping into the channel between the rocks - bright green seaweed below our pale legs - the cove is a suntrap - bathers sun themselves, lying upon the warm stone - dogs scurry about - mums unscrew thermos flasks -
But that day, I thought of The Halsewell - wrecked here in 1786, on her way to Madras - she was driven upon this shore - I imagined the shouts of the crew, the noise of the timbers splintering, the white shapes flung upon the shore by the sea -
South of The Square and Compass, there is a deep valley leading to the sea - sharp brambles line the path - ferns and docks are waist high - a hidden stream flows between tangled alders and oaks - beyond the hooks of the brambles, you can see Celtic lynchets, like worn steps on the hillside -
Cows graze upon the rich grass - their eyes are brown and troubled - there are numbered tags piercing their ears - they swing their great heads round to stare at passers by -
Dry stone walls mark the boundaries of the fields - the stones are yellowy with lichen - old man's beard is festooned over blackthorn -
Towards the sea, there are caves, narrow chambers in the rock, the homes of rare bats - an old quarry faces the sea - brave sinewy girls practice rock climbing up the jointed rock faces -
The men working here cut out galleries within the rock - wooden cranes lowered the stone down to barges, moored below the cliff -
I came here, with Anne, one wild day in January - we scrambled down the path to the rocks and stormy sea - foam lashed our faces - we could taste salt upon our tongues - waves leaped up and fell upon the barnacled slabs of Portland Stone - we stood just a few feet away from the mad icy sea -
We've swum here in the summer, slipping into the channel between the rocks - bright green seaweed below our pale legs - the cove is a suntrap - bathers sun themselves, lying upon the warm stone - dogs scurry about - mums unscrew thermos flasks -
But that day, I thought of The Halsewell - wrecked here in 1786, on her way to Madras - she was driven upon this shore - I imagined the shouts of the crew, the noise of the timbers splintering, the white shapes flung upon the shore by the sea -
Fine imagery in picture and word. The past crashing into the present moment. Poetic prose at its best. I could see and hear those lost souls cast upon the thunder of the merciless waters.
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