From a Cornish Clifftop

          For me, this Wednesday will mark nine weeks of The Solitude. 

There is a longing to be Elsewhere. To see the sea again, to watch green hedges sweeping over Welsh hills. To follow clouds and the light changing on mountains. 

Some photos of another time, another place. The cliffs between Looe and Talland Bay. Spring 2018.

Golden Gorse

A few weeks ago, on a sunny spring afternoon, we could see the yellow-gold of gorse shining through gaps in the boundary hedge. We climbed over the gate and set off for a short walk around a nearby valley. 

A few New Forest ponies, looking well after early spring grass, grazed by the deserted road. 

There were signs of tree buds bursting, up on the Beacon Hill. 

A heathland pool, replenished by rain. 

Everywhere, the coconut scent of gorse. 

Around the corner....

..... we followed a narrow sandy path towards the valley bottom. 

Ponies grazed in the wet mire.

                             
            With the country in Lockdown, the sky seemed bluer and the air cleaner.

I stopped to watch and listen.

           No noise of traffic. Just ponies pulling grass and munching. Just a stonechat, chit-chatting somewhere in the gorse nearby. 

   Up a twisting sandy track , I climbed into the woodland edge towards home.

A Walk Through Winter Trees

At the end of the storms, everywhere was wet. Just days before, we had been told that those with health vulnerabilities and those of a certain age should prepare to self isolate. We needed to get out, to think and find some peace. 

There were signs of spring. Patches of celandines grew in wild corners of the garden. 

We walked for an hour or so in the woods on the Beacon Hill. 

Felled by the winter wet and rotted through, this old 'woodpecker tree ' had been a landmark in the lane. 

I

Its bark, studded with woodpecker holes, and its crumbling interior, waited now for insects and birds to feed. 

A wet lane and leafless trees, but still the bright moss shone on beech bark.

                   
                         
        In the valley, soaked bracken, gorse and distant trees stretched towards the coast.

                                   

        Holly, the understory of tall beech and oak, had been eaten to the browsing line by Forest ponies and deer. 

A "tunnel of green gloom" from the lane to the bright edge of the hill. 

From the hill fort`s flat topped grass, miles of heath  crossed into the misty distance. 

Time to turn round, past pools and down the wooded slopes. A winter wood on the edge of spring.