Here, where the meadowsweet slopes down to the sea. Almost in the shadow of the wind, warm air heavy with the honey-mead heady scent. The sea, wind wrinkled, calm, breathing to the shore.
A raven call.
In the bluest water an silver seal dreams.
Wren song echoes loud from the dark cliff walls, tangled with the sea's song. A soft base note beneath it all the churring call of grasshopper warblers.
Further on Shakespearean pillow banks of wild thyme.
And in The Gessail the family of kestrels has fledged, at least 3 chicks. They fly just above the beach, wings not yet strong enough to lift them to dance on the wind. Hesitant flight. All they lack is confidence.
When a parent returns with food the air fills with the wings and calling clamour. Four chicks. Then silence, until a grasshopper begins to tick away at time.
On the way home a peregrine, small in the sky, a dark death dart, until a kestrel begins to hang behind him, waiting, watching. Then a family of vagabond ravens crashes black against the blue. I thank them once again for the story of the Ice Bear they gave me some years ago, and make my way home.
Doodling on my iPad gives a sense of freedom and freshness.