Musings and marginalia from a freelance writer
Walking out today, and the air felt fresh and sharp; twangs of sap from the growth plucked from the oaks, ashes, and chestnuts by Storm Bronagh that passed by a couple days ago. Bronagh may be gone, but she still has straggling gusts chasing at her skirts – making these old trees creak alarmingly, and setting up the jays in the wood.
It’s breezy. Not quite ‘wild’ and not exactly what Britishers might call ‘a good stiff breeze’ but it’s getting there. When I pass by the cul-de-sac of houses, I am met by the thrumming whurr of telephone wires vibrating with the wind.
I’ll let you into a secret: I can’t swim. Which is crazy considering that I live on an island, and that I grew up on an estuary (or Thames Delta, as it’s coming to be known). But here’s another secret: I love the water – or maybe I should say the sea, I love the sea.
Recently me and the angel of my better brain have taken to driving across to the Welsh coast as often as possible and diving in. She swims like a mermaid, you wont be surprised to find out. Me? Not so much. I flounder. I gasp. I bob with the waves and skip-float crablike with every crash of saline. But I still love it.