Winter Work 7

 Two frozen tenders huddle together for warmth, at the head of Faversham Creek.

Solid fuel stoves warm the liveaboard boats on Standard Quay. Scenting the air, with the deep tarry tang of coal and salty driftwood topnotes, through makeshift stacks.

Beyond the bohemian boatyard, and its backdrop of neatly ordered apartments, a footpath leads onto the seawall. Shadowed white, where the midday sun has yet to fall and the night frost lingers.

Spoonbills saunter in the shallow remnants of the channel. Which is navigable for an hour or so, either side of high water, by mariners strong of nerve and shallow of draft.

Thus a favourite with Thames Barge skippers. Who, in summer, guide their historic craft up from the Swale, following the extravagant meanders. On a ‘touch and go’ basis.

After, perhaps, pausing in the Shipwright's Arms at Hollowshore. Sited where Oare Creek and Faversham Creek combine to empty seaward.

It is a tranquil spot in which to wait for a favourable tide. Set amid wind tousled rushes and rolling countryside. 

Quintessentially coastal Kent.

Winter Work 6

 

In a blaze of pied wingbeats, an Avocet alights. Casting its long shadow upon the glutinous bank of the rill. Which shelters the new arrival from a piercing arctic breeze. The bird surveys the shimmering waters, as they drain swiftly between its slender grey legs. Its scimitar beak and bold plumage mirrored sharp and clear.

As the tide recedes, so the land advances. Whilst the salt tolerant sedge stands its ground. Stoically watching this twice daily dance of the elements. A Redshank emerges from within intertwined stems. Enticed by a freshly formed pool.

Busily, the Redshank scurries about the mudflats. Like its surroundings, perpetually in motion. Like the Avocet, its eyes intent and beak poised, searching for the stirrings of a subsurface meal.

Teal too are down, this morning. They favour south facing slopes. Basking in the low winter sun, between languid dips.

The Avocet paces methodically seaward. Scything the silt, with its long black beak, sifting for a snack. Once beyond the lee of the earth ramparts, the keen wind shatters the stealthy hunter’s snowy reflection.

On the sea wall, red berried branches sway. Beyond them stretches the limitless horizon of the salt marsh. The air is laden with the cries of wildfowl and with saline scents. Which belong neither to shore nor sea, but are unique to these enigmatic wetlands.