Russian blues at Shipstal Point

A few weeks ago, I walked, with Anne and Richard, to Shipstal Point - Richard borrowed some formidable binoculars from the man in the RSPB hut - we made our way through the bird sanctuary, posing as twitchers  - the trees were still bare - the slim white trunks of birch trees made me think of Russia - I thought of doomed writers, sitting in their dachas - they were waiting for the phone to ring in the early hours of the morning - they  heard, already, the cars driving up through the serene grove -

I had read Life and Fate a few years ago, the summer after my operation - the novel whirled me into momentous and terrible events - heroic suffering was accompanied by contemptible treachery - how I loathed the commissar Getmanov -

When we stood upon the shore at Shipstall, it was low tide - you could see glistening tongues of mud between narrow channels of shallow water - low islands, thick with tangled trees, rose from silky wastes of mud - clouds filled the sky -

A thin layer of fine yellow sand lay on top of the mud - my boots sunk through the sand, deep into the mud - I stared at the marks I'd made - the mud sucked at my boots -

Richard scanned the sky - he saw an egret and an oystercatcher - I looked out, over sand bars, marsh land, scrub and low misty ridges - I saw the beautiful shattered hull of Corfe Castle - set upon its mound - commanding the gap in the chalk ridge -

The castle was as remote as a dream - I took some comfort in its shards of masonry - I resolved to be of good spirits, and to think of the resourceful Lady Bankes -