A secret place

My favourite place is situated in quite a wide space. It is a secret place on the side of a cliff with a magnificent view of Cornish coastline. It is a protruding section of headland at the end of which you can climb down onto what appears to be an uncomfortable section of bare rock. There are though several ‘seats’ in the hard granite, which are made more comfortable by clumps of sea thrift on which I sit. The ledge is high up windswept and the breeze is often bracing and penetrating. On the wind the sea leaves its mark with the taste of salt, which gives substance to the sound of the waves dramatically pounding the muscle clad rocks below. Nesting herring gulls noisily circle overhead but settle once I stop moving around. The sun beats down on exposed skin in this vulnerable place. To the west of my south facing position is the open expanse of sea, and as I gaze out onto the horizon I imagine myself sailing the Atlantic across to America. In the foreground long lines are formed in the water, which break evenly into an off shore surfers swell. To the south of my position there are four or five giant stacks of eroded granite cliff sitting on the sand covered beach. These give the main focal point of interest and are framed by the sea, sky, and cliffs behind them. These monoliths dominate the landscape, but only because they have become separated from the mainland, do they become a focus of beauty. In the distance there is the grey of a sprawling town, where a famous hotel sits upright on the end of another headland as if to conquer the escaping land.

Once again I take in this view and count the features lost to sliding eroded cliffs year by year. The inscription I made years ago in the rock is hardly visible now but the scene lives on. A place where I feel I belong, where my spirit transcends material living and joins hands with greater significance. A place where the ‘me’ ‘myself’ and ‘I’ melt away eclipsed by the beauty of natural grandeur in all its glory, giving way to a sense of belonging, meaning and renewed purpose for a weary soul.

Goodbye Facebook

GOODBYEEE...I’ve got serious ‘status updatitis’. Blackberry enabled FB status updates on the loo have finally killed the FB in me. So to all the bored housewives with tales of daily childcare, to all the church leaders who advertise their ‘must go to’ events, to all the frustrated unpublished theologians who proliferate their many many views, to all those who repeated their friend requests (did you not get that you’ve asked me before?), to all the people in the friend queue (I’m sorry), to all the people who were a sort-of-friend-once but never moved on, to the three people who wanted to be my friend but wouldn't speak to me in real life, to all the glamorous random Eastern Euro ladies (nice but why me?), to the hung over party people, to the gloomy Monday club and the happier Friday club, to the Sunday B&Q searchers, the sofaphilosophers, Saturday carwashers, to the weather obsessors, to the holiday gloaters and holiday photos (yes I looked and it made me feel naughty), to the horoscopers, to the catch phrase junkies, to the blog interlacers, and tweet-weavers, to those who quote others in talks as they hear them, to those with more friends than me (usually more Church enculturated = more friends), and to those with less friends than me (clearly not as popular (had to say it)), to the Chilean miner updaters, the BBC News readers, the middle east crisis observors, the good causers, the big eventers, the marathon runners, fun runners and swimathoners, the festival junkies and band PR people, to the ‘live abroads’ and ‘live aboards’, to the world savers, your lives exhaust me. I’m sorry I simply can’t do this anymore. I dislike. Also, who deletes accounts when we die? See you on the re-created FB, on Godbook, on the other side where we will all truly be friends. Goodbye the fearless.

Who let the cows out?

Memories of Mozambique 08

The river runs through it...

Just got back from a very happy fishing trip to Dartmoor. This was a first for me and I loved it. There were a couple of times standing in my waders mid river where all the concerns of life just simply melted away as my line passed through the air above my head. Fishing is really so much more than catching fish but catching fish is great. I caught my first fish on the river Teign, mid river as the fish were rising in the dappled light at around 5.3opm on 19th May with an Adams Irresitible dry fly. A wildy brown trout and a great and happy moment.

Oh the relief

Garden

Well part of the job of being alive in my view at least is to be as best a steward as possible of what weve been given. In that spirit Ive set about tackling the garden which has been neglected for some time.

Obviously, as you can see, there is little of interest in the garden and with little income and just over two years in this place it does not seem worthwhile investing in constructing the dream garden.

The house I live in used to be a farmhouse and I have heard that farming was mainly commercial horticulutre but they had some dairy too (i live in the dairy). Vegetables were grown from the house all the way down to the river and so the soil is apparently very good. Contributed to by silt that has been left by the river over the centuries. So I am going to grow veggies for the first time. This is a real cross over for me as I have always considered the veggie side of horticulture and those who proliferate it quite odd.

No doubt, needing a new obsession post marathon, I will be soon be banging on about my ginormous leeks and flawless carrots. Be warned.

Flora London Marathon Finisher

...and I didnt walk (at all)