All things bright and beautiful

2nd August 2024

It is harvest. The long blonde tresses that have swept and grown across our fields have been trimmed. A short and spiky summer cut. Conveniently cooler, if you don’t mind visible dark roots.

All the tractors are out. The older ones with high skinny wheels pulling trailer-loads of bales twice as tall as the mostly open cab, appear to topple slightly as they approach along narrow country roads.

Frequently, they head a procession, a respectful line of cars, waiting and waiting until the relevant farm lane appears. The protocol is to pull aside when it’s coming towards you. You should respect harvest.

The challenge is managing not to be hit head-on by the people who have left the procession and are overtaking the tractor because they just can’t wait. Perhaps they have live kidney in an ice box in the boot and are in a life and death rush to hospital? Perhaps not.

The verges have been trimmed. There’s now about a mower’s width of grass, leaving chest-high blond tufts with the occasional colour burst up against the hedge. It’s like a head-turning mohican, mesmeric and tall, with buzz cut around the ears.

The tall tufts can be beautiful; blond grass, black sunburnt parsleys, the occasional yellow ragwort, thistledown tufts and gentle purple vervain and mallow.

There is warmth in the air, twenty one degrees even at eight am. The beach gives immediate relief from the thick dust churned up from the combine harvesters that is everywhere inland.

The sea looks high and abundant and rippling pewter. The fishing boat is out. The sun is beginning to peep through the clouds.

Between the shore and the shingle there’s a well-worn sandy strip marked with paw prints and footprints and the occasional pebble speckle.

It’s two hours before the first full high tide which means that we can comfortably swim at body height but it’s possible to push a toe down and touch the sandy bottom for a moment of reassurance. There are waves. Kind waves seemingly there for entertainment.

It’s high summer, we swim in shifts; Puck, the Electrician and Bikini (Cat Woman for the summer thanks to her full-body jellyfish-protection suit) are getting out and changed when we arrive. The Canadian and the Lawyer are away. Separately.

The eight am shift becomes just me and Cousin, Rupert’s Mum, the Boatbuilder and Iron Woman, happily gentle wave jumping until we chat and stop paying attention and find that one of the group and then all of the group has embarked on the start of a journey south.

Tidal currents are devious. At a certain depth, the pull becomes significantly stronger. You can be together in a tight group and unexpectedly someone will whizz off to another spot altogether.

The tide too is kind and gentle this morning; it pulls along rather than out. South in this case. A pull out can be disarming in warm weather and frankly terrifying in the winter months when it’s cold and you find yourself much further from the beach than you’d intended with a hard-work swim home.

The dappled cloud has scattered just a handful of silver glitter full of hope and glory.

We linger longer in the sea in August. Who wouldn’t? The water temperature is around seventeen degrees. It’s not a cosy bath but it’s comfortable. A tiny wince getting in and then a refreshing dip in what feel like therapeutic waters.

The jellyfish are still around but they mostly aren’t as close to the beach as we are. Occasionally, someone will feel something weirdly substantial against their leg, quickly shout, quickly swim to another spot and pretty soon make the decision to get out.

Back on the beach, there’s a gentle breeze from the south south east. The source of the air is warm from that direction as seen in the dark red weather maps of Europe.

We are lucky. The sea brings escape. It’s not demanding or energy-sapping, like it can be in cold weather. It’s a palpable relief from trouble and strife in the real world.

Out-of-time blackberries are appearing on the brambles and too-early plums on the trees.