Felixstowe Beach

It is a landscape I know well; I have walked it at first light on a January day when thousands of tiny white starfish scattered the sand and stones waiting for the sea to return and reclaim them.  I have walked the shoreline as the light leaves the sky and darkness falls. I have walked the wrack line under rolling clouds that hold the promise of rain, and darkening clouds that filter away to leave the stars.

I had thought, at the beginning of this day that my knowledge of the landscape would immediately cast me into a deep level of understanding, that I would be able to capture its essence, instead I found myself floundering unable to find a way in.  I began to walk and forage, collecting bits from the beach, slivers of driftwood, plastic handles worn by the sea so they looked like bones, a piece of sea glass, green and smooth.

Eastlane

The small car park was empty and it was bitterly cold.  However, the sun shone weakly and there was no sign of snow clouds on the horizon.  It is a strange place hovering between time with a tower several storeys high and low concrete bunkers against the coastal path some of which had fallen over the tumbling cliffs into the sea. On the opposite side of the path were a series of ponds fringed with reeds.  Swans, geese and ducks populated the mirrored water.  I walked along the path until I could scramble down onto the beach where I spent half an hour wandering picking up bits of driftwood.  Mindful of the time and the threat of heavy snow and a long drive ahead of me I turned back.  As I walked five swans rose into the air and steadily flew over the ponds.  One broke away and as the other four landed it continued to circle flying low over the reed beds.

Covehithe

This time the beach felt ghostlike. I noticed along the way half buried bricks, their edges worn smooth and rounded lying amongst the stones.  There were tiles and clumps of rose speckled pebble dashing.  The wind blew the fine dry sand like smoke across the damp beach. The sky was grey and overcast until suddenly the sun broke through and a streak of pure blue brilliance flooded the greyness. I turned and walked back to the reed beds. The sea’s mutterings drowned out  any other sounds.  The wind whipped away any scents and I sat there watching the waves heave and hurl.  I thought of all the bricks, and remnants of the houses scattered amongst the sand and stones.  Of the sand blowing like a mist, of the small bundles of dried grasses and seaweed that bounced and bowled along the shore dancing in front of the wind that chased behind and the ghosts whispered around me.

Sizewell

 Under the shadow of the power station the beach curves away.  Ramshackle sheds cluster together taking refuge behind the sleek bellied boats tethered to the land.  Fishermen line the shore and I watch one slowly reel in a fish.  The line stretched and strained and he wound it in bit by bit until at last a silver fish danced on the end of the line like a body on the gallows in the last throes of life.

I thought I saw a piece of quartz.  It lay amongst the stones, a deep cream, smooth ridges.  When I picked it up I felt instead of cool stone the slight stickiness of wax, the kind that makes you feel as if it doesn’t want to let go of your flesh.  As I walked further I saw lots of wax, unidentifiable shapes and I wondered why they littered the ground and where they had come from.

Staverton Thicks

Everything is split, fractured, peeling. A fallen tree is holding itself up off the forest floor teetering en pointe. A sapling reaches out, all whip thin branches, pleading with it. Gaunt trunks twist, curve, dancing round one another not quite touching. Sunlight reveals, in flashes, gossamer threads linking twig to leaf. In a clearing a leaf fragment, torn and dried is caught by some invisible strand. Suspended at eye level it spirals caught forever in that moment it fell from the tree. But all the while, all around the forest bubble is the drone of planes, the throb of helicopters, the thrum of cars. You cannot escape however much you need to.

Staverton Thicks

I stand in a small clearing of holly trees in a buzz of hoverflies. One stops directly in front of my face and we look at one another for a time. It is perfectly balanced in the air, the only movement a blur of wings. Abruptly it takes off, shooting towards the sky in a straight line. I feel a childish delight rising up inside me, I turn my head from side to side to catch a glimpse of a multitude of tiny winged creatures suspended against the dark backdrop of holly leaves. So easy, here in this ancient wood, to feel I might just be enticed into fairyland.

The Patch

It feels a little bit like fairy land today with the floating seed clouds, the tiny flowers, everything is in miniature enclosed in this space, with the grunt and rumble of the human world kept at bay. Little pockets of cuckoo spit nestle in the heart of mint leaves and in the crease of the blades of grass. A pale green eggshell lies on the path.

Rust dying. I've soaked various fabrics in strong tea and wrapped a rusty old plough with the damp cotton. This process is impossible to control, but that’s what excites me. I will leave the fabric here for a week. It will rain. The wind will dry it. The sun will bleach it.