Beachcombing in Worbarrow Bay

One of my secret dreams is to become a beachcomber - I see myself, idling on some warm shore - my bare feet sink into fine yellow sand - the delicate fronds of tamarisk trees are stirred by gentle air - I can smell the scent of lemons -

I would think such tempting thoughts whilst I dodged icy raindrops, sidling into a conference room - colleagues with white rugs might ask me about the school's numbers - women with neat bobs would hand me a shiny agenda - but my mind would be far away -

Now, though, I think beachcombing is possible anywhere - I can search for wonders in louche streets in Bournemouth, on my way to the dentists - there will be exotic characters emerging from internet cafes, or from out of tattoo parlours - there is no need to board a jet -

Last June, I walked with Anne upon the beach at Worbarrow Bay - choppy waves broke upon the coarse, gravelly, sand - chalk cliffs gleamed when bathed by intermittent sunlight - banks of bluish grey cloud moved across the sky - I looked up, wondering what shapes I would see, forming in the clouds -

We heard the waves, splintering upon the sand - bright foam marked the semi circle of the bay - windswept grass half covered the broken stone walls of fishermen's cottages - beyond the bay, at the head of the Gwyle, was the beautiful shattered village -

Upon the shore, we found a plastic fishing crate from Brixham - we wondered what cuttlefish pool meant - we kicked at tangled coils of tarred rope, wrapped round with blackened seaweed - we found a flag, saying Apnea St Malo - Anne picked up a curious blue container -

Further along the bay, a fisherman stood like a slender statue - his line reached out into the turbulent sea -

We sat, out of the wind, upon a patch of white sand - behind us were worn stones - our thoughts were confined to the movement of the sea, the taste of the salty air, the sand blown upon our skin -