Durdle Door ...

One bright November morning, I visited Durdle Door - I felt the need to be reminded of the savage beauty of the arch, the bravura of the sea -

I parked the red Peugeot just south of Daggers Gate - the sky was so blue it made my heart lurch with joy - I remembered, anew, the miraculous fact that I had been reprieved - 

I walked through the caravan park - the static caravans were like emptied chrysalids - there were no sunburnt families here now, no dads clutching bottles of Fossil Fuel - I looked in vain for girls in bikinis, sashaying out of the campsite shop - 

I could hear the sounds of rooks, swirling in the air above the pine trees - their harsh cries followed me as I walked briskly towards the cliff path - I breathed in, with delight, great lungfuls of chill, salty, air - 

There, far below me, was the Arch - the icy glittering sea was free of yachts - long foaming waves swept up onto the shingle - 

I hurried down the spiraling steps to the sea's edge - I remembered how, one summer's afternoon, Anne and Maire had swum out through the arch - I watched their slim shapes move through the water - 

I walked along the beach, looking back at the Arch - I saw my footprints, like a sign, marked in the gritty sand - I knew they would soon vanish, smoothed away by the waves - yet here they were - marking my impudent, joyous, passage -