After spending a day working hard on my October Poem, I decided it was time to get some fresh air and take a refreshing walk by the sea. I’d had a frustrating day getting to grips with the art work which illustrates my poem. Dahlia were proving deceptively tricky to paint, I had found.
I left the house, locked the front door and pushed the keys back through the letter box, in case one of the menfolk in the house may need it. The men have great difficulty locating the whereabouts of keys. As I retrieved my fingers from the letterbox, one of my cats unexpectedly clawed me. They were obviously in hunting mode.
Phil drove us to Marazion, which is no more than a mile away from our house. Just a quick walk, we thought, as it would soon be dark. We had turned the clocks back an hour at the weekend, and I was still finding it hard to adjust to the real time.
As we arrived in Marazion and parked opposite St Michael’s Mount, it dawned rather quickly on us that a storm was coming in from the sea. The weather can change in an instant near the coast, and what seemed like a sunny, late afternoon was turning into a very unsettled evening. The sky was a dark petrol blue, and the green sea churned and frothed in agitation. Flecks of rain began to spatter down as we set off, and it wasn’t long before we turned back the way we had come.
The warm welcoming lights of a local art gallery beckoned, and so we stepped inside and took shelter. I admired an oil painting of Marazion Marshes, he grasses and reeds were so life like, I was quite mesmerised by it. Meanwhile, Phil spoke to the owner about the state of the world. As men do.
After a short while, the weather cleared, and we decided to plod on. There was a full moon that night, and the tide was high. Some of the worst storms that I have encountered have taken place in late October and early November. Through the memorial gardens and up the hill, past the impressive mansions – which were quite jaw dropping in their splendour, and looked as though they were straight out of the set of a 1950s Hitchcock film. The gardens were full of incredible sub-tropical plants which grow in abundance on this mild South Coast. Aloes and strange succulent growths, with alien looking red leaves and a nobbly centre – the name of which, I have no idea – grow tall and strong despite the salty winds battering them.
Down the hill, and I notice a beautiful garden teaming with flowers, whose petals were vivid and glorious against the dark brooding sky. Dahlias. Everywhere. I can recognise those alright. Almost at the foot of the hill now and the darkness is taking hold. Not much further now, and we will soon be back to our warm car. Except, the reflection of the moonlight in the glittering road which lies ahead reveals that the tide is coming in fast and has flooded the road ahead. There is no way through, the water is rising quickly. There is no choice but to double back all the way up the hill. A family suddenly appear from a nearby house, brightly kitted out in sensible rain wear. ‘Are you cut off?’ enquires the Dad. ‘We are’ we both cheerfully reply in unison. ‘Should have wellies on like me,’ exclaims the young girl disapprovingly. Indeed we should, but sadly, we don’t.
The hill has a steeper incline on the way back, and the light is fading. Should have brought one of the numerous torches with us that we have back at home, now lying uselessly in a drawer.
Through the memorial gardens we go – which now have the air of a Hammer House of Horror movie set. I stop to take a photo of one of the eerie crucifixes set in stone on the pathway. All around is the keening sound of gulls. As we make it back to our car, the waves are now enthusiastically breaking over the wall of the sea front, and the sky looks sick and miserable. Soon we arrive back home – and back to my difficult dahlias.