A wind bent, bare branched bush, braves thirty five knots of north east breeze. Atop the South Foreland. Standing to the side of the path, like a wizened grey-beard resting upon his stick. Taking in the view, beside me.
Behind us, toy town lorries stream along race track roads. Circling the ferry port. Before us, the wind scoured horizon is swallowed in a white haze, just short of fog, before Cap Gris Nez can be sighted, on the French shore.
Retreating to the sun trap streets, of the town, I am lured upward once more. By the silhouette of Dover Castle. Ever present on the skyline.
Stone steps, dished and smoothed by the footfall of centuries, carry me up a wooded hillside. Emerging beneath the ancient battlements. Sheltered completely from the wind, I peel off anorak, hat, scarf, jumper and gloves to eat my picnic in shirt sleeves. Seated amongst fresh young shoots of bracken.
.JPG)
In the port, Stargazer heels to the gusts. Watching for her weather window. Colours snapping overhead, like impatient fingers. Eager to resume her passage.
No comments:
Post a Comment