The morning was mild, almost warm, even though we were still
in the grip of winter. We ducked the
strong eddying wind by clambering over stones to shelter behind ancient
limestone rocks. Someone said they were
four hundred million years old, and full of primitive fossil plants. I never saw any. The rocks arranged themselves in giant and
convenient steps from the shore to the cliff face. A notice said that high tide was at twelve
forty-eight in the afternoon. It was a
little after eleven, and the sea was already rolling over the great sweep of
white sand that gave the bay its name.
Looking around at the wide expanse of sea, sand and rocks, I was
reminded of Private Fraser’s eye-rolling remark: ‘A wild and lonely place, ye
understand,’ or Shakespeare’s ‘Undiscover’d country from whose bourn no
traveller returns.’ The sea itself was
calm and grey, and on the horizon there was nothing but water until you reached
the shores of Europe. I tried to recall that verse of Coleridge’s that started
‘The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,’ but that was all that came to
mind. I remembered that I am almost as
old as Coleridge's Ancient Mariner and I couldn’t be expected to recollect everything
all the time.
The sun drifted in and out but there were several ragged slashes of blue amongst the implacable silver-grey of the clouds. The day promised well. I catapulted a tennis ball for the dog to chase. The ball bounced on loose stones and disappeared; lost for ever. All the stones on the beach looked like tennis balls. The dozy animal couldn’t tell which was the tennis ball amongst all the stones. I thought they had a sense of smell two hundred times keener than ours. Perhaps that doesn’t apply to round spherical objects.
Above us, on the cliff footpath, a mother and her two young children were walking an indeterminate breed of terrier. Four stately mute swans swam in the open sea. A rock pipit busied itself amongst the weed. A shoal of herring gulls wailed overhead. A pair of carrion crows scrutinised the rocks carefully for food.
We climbed up onto the cliff-top path. Furze bushes were already flowering - an extravagant saffron yellow. Half a mile on, at the cliff edge, we came across something that might have at one time been quite a large drainage outlet. I could hear the gurgle of water inside it and a steel pipe entered it from the landward side. Two manhole covers were fastened to the top. They were held in place by cast-iron staples, which couldn’t be opened. The concrete and brickwork were mainly in ruins, so you couldn’t tell what the thing had originally looked like.
We reached the albino lighthouse, so prominent in these parts, around noon. That was journey’s end, for lunch was still a long way off. We turned back, along the tufted, stunted wire-grass that covered the uneven ground, stamping on the rabbit droppings that lay like raisins. We soon reached the metalled road that took us past the giant quarry and the lake that filled the old quarry workings. The dog chased a stick, whilst I marvelled at the quarry’s giant earthmoving crane that occupied around two hundred yards of ground in front of the cement factory. Every so often, one of two signs adorned the wire fence that separated the road from the quarry. One said ‘Danger: Working Quarry.’ The other simply bore a red skull and crossbones with the stark warning: ‘No Entry.’ A few of the signs had been blown off the wire fence by the intensity of the wind. Detritus carelessly thrown from cars lined the roadside. Amongst the crisp packets, coca-cola cans and water-bottles, I noticed one piece of absolutely indestructible plastic packaging. It had once contained a sachet of Febreze Car Air Freshener.
We returned to the car. A tractor was cutting grass in the rough meadow that bounded the parking area. The smell reminded me of high summer, though this was February. We passed the two derelict cast-iron water fountains that were left, manufactured many years ago by Glenfield and Kennedy Ltd, of Kilmarnock, and the only two remaining picnic tables, both of which had been partially burned by inconsiderate people’s barbecues. A Council amenity services truck passed us, on its way to the bin area. There were two people in it. It takes two people to empty a bin. I could hear the sound of the quarrying even above the hustling wind. I could smell the clean air and the newly cut grass. I could almost taste the salty tang of the seaweed. I could see the bleakness and barrenness of the surroundings and how man alters nature simply by burrowing into it.
Above all that, however, with the wind in my face and no-one else around, I had a feeling of quiet optimism. I could feel the tension slipping away and my muscles relaxing as if I had just stepped out of a spa bath. I felt near to Christopher Marlowe’s ‘perfect bliss and sole felicity.’
On the way home, I noticed that the caravan site was shut. That was the only reminder that, after all, this was not a pleasant day in late spring.
The sun drifted in and out but there were several ragged slashes of blue amongst the implacable silver-grey of the clouds. The day promised well. I catapulted a tennis ball for the dog to chase. The ball bounced on loose stones and disappeared; lost for ever. All the stones on the beach looked like tennis balls. The dozy animal couldn’t tell which was the tennis ball amongst all the stones. I thought they had a sense of smell two hundred times keener than ours. Perhaps that doesn’t apply to round spherical objects.
Above us, on the cliff footpath, a mother and her two young children were walking an indeterminate breed of terrier. Four stately mute swans swam in the open sea. A rock pipit busied itself amongst the weed. A shoal of herring gulls wailed overhead. A pair of carrion crows scrutinised the rocks carefully for food.
We climbed up onto the cliff-top path. Furze bushes were already flowering - an extravagant saffron yellow. Half a mile on, at the cliff edge, we came across something that might have at one time been quite a large drainage outlet. I could hear the gurgle of water inside it and a steel pipe entered it from the landward side. Two manhole covers were fastened to the top. They were held in place by cast-iron staples, which couldn’t be opened. The concrete and brickwork were mainly in ruins, so you couldn’t tell what the thing had originally looked like.
We reached the albino lighthouse, so prominent in these parts, around noon. That was journey’s end, for lunch was still a long way off. We turned back, along the tufted, stunted wire-grass that covered the uneven ground, stamping on the rabbit droppings that lay like raisins. We soon reached the metalled road that took us past the giant quarry and the lake that filled the old quarry workings. The dog chased a stick, whilst I marvelled at the quarry’s giant earthmoving crane that occupied around two hundred yards of ground in front of the cement factory. Every so often, one of two signs adorned the wire fence that separated the road from the quarry. One said ‘Danger: Working Quarry.’ The other simply bore a red skull and crossbones with the stark warning: ‘No Entry.’ A few of the signs had been blown off the wire fence by the intensity of the wind. Detritus carelessly thrown from cars lined the roadside. Amongst the crisp packets, coca-cola cans and water-bottles, I noticed one piece of absolutely indestructible plastic packaging. It had once contained a sachet of Febreze Car Air Freshener.
We returned to the car. A tractor was cutting grass in the rough meadow that bounded the parking area. The smell reminded me of high summer, though this was February. We passed the two derelict cast-iron water fountains that were left, manufactured many years ago by Glenfield and Kennedy Ltd, of Kilmarnock, and the only two remaining picnic tables, both of which had been partially burned by inconsiderate people’s barbecues. A Council amenity services truck passed us, on its way to the bin area. There were two people in it. It takes two people to empty a bin. I could hear the sound of the quarrying even above the hustling wind. I could smell the clean air and the newly cut grass. I could almost taste the salty tang of the seaweed. I could see the bleakness and barrenness of the surroundings and how man alters nature simply by burrowing into it.
Above all that, however, with the wind in my face and no-one else around, I had a feeling of quiet optimism. I could feel the tension slipping away and my muscles relaxing as if I had just stepped out of a spa bath. I felt near to Christopher Marlowe’s ‘perfect bliss and sole felicity.’
On the way home, I noticed that the caravan site was shut. That was the only reminder that, after all, this was not a pleasant day in late spring.
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