Sea mist over Swanage, dissolving realities
Last Saturday, I went to Swanage with Anne and Penny - it was the second weekend of an icy March - later, snow would cover East Stoke - tiny burrs of ice fell from the sky - my fingers were soon chilled without gloves - I admired the brave show of the daffodils under the sullen sky -
We parked the Golf on the sea front - there was a line of cars there, facing the waves - some drivers sat inside their shiny capsules - I saw wives pass their husbands cups of tea, poured from the family thermos - red fingers grasped the pages of The Daily Mail -
We jumped down to the fine chill sand - there were very few people walking on the beach - low waves rolled in from the bay - dark shells were covered by foam, then uncovered as the wave ebbed away -
We saw banks of sea mist roll in, to hide the town - Peveril Point, the pier with its diving schools, the amusement arcade, the shops selling distressed furniture - all were veiled in bluish white vagueness -
Sea mist also swept over Ballard Down - as we walked along, we could see less and less - the Ocean Bay restaurant took on the shape of a 1930's Cunarder - I was sure that I could hear the voices of her passengers,their brittle chit chat over cocktails -
Beyond the Ocean Bay, police tape barred our way along the beach - there had been landslips, following the recent heavy rains - notices warned of dangerous sinking mud -
On top of the low cliffs, I saw the spectral outline of the Grand Hotel - I imagined Harry Price arriving in a roadster, invited to sort out some psychic mayhem -
A row of beach huts looked like Lycian rock tombs - two folding chairs stood empty upon the sand - a hundred yards or so offshore, there was a silent procession of canoes -
Only a visit to a charming shop, full of antique gilt mirrors, restored my sense of reality -
Last Saturday, I went to Swanage with Anne and Penny - it was the second weekend of an icy March - later, snow would cover East Stoke - tiny burrs of ice fell from the sky - my fingers were soon chilled without gloves - I admired the brave show of the daffodils under the sullen sky -
We parked the Golf on the sea front - there was a line of cars there, facing the waves - some drivers sat inside their shiny capsules - I saw wives pass their husbands cups of tea, poured from the family thermos - red fingers grasped the pages of The Daily Mail -
We jumped down to the fine chill sand - there were very few people walking on the beach - low waves rolled in from the bay - dark shells were covered by foam, then uncovered as the wave ebbed away -
We saw banks of sea mist roll in, to hide the town - Peveril Point, the pier with its diving schools, the amusement arcade, the shops selling distressed furniture - all were veiled in bluish white vagueness -
Sea mist also swept over Ballard Down - as we walked along, we could see less and less - the Ocean Bay restaurant took on the shape of a 1930's Cunarder - I was sure that I could hear the voices of her passengers,their brittle chit chat over cocktails -
Beyond the Ocean Bay, police tape barred our way along the beach - there had been landslips, following the recent heavy rains - notices warned of dangerous sinking mud -
On top of the low cliffs, I saw the spectral outline of the Grand Hotel - I imagined Harry Price arriving in a roadster, invited to sort out some psychic mayhem -
A row of beach huts looked like Lycian rock tombs - two folding chairs stood empty upon the sand - a hundred yards or so offshore, there was a silent procession of canoes -
Only a visit to a charming shop, full of antique gilt mirrors, restored my sense of reality -
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