I had hoped for something better all week, but feared the worst. On Thursday the village polling station was busier than I had ever seen it before, a sign that something was about to change. Friday dawned as dull and grey as a June morning can be and then got bleaker. Disbelief turns to anger at how so many people could be so stupid and believe the lies of the haters and charlatans. Driving around, I swear at the Leave posters that have stained the countryside red. I search for someone to blame, never a good place to be. By Saturday, it's time to search for something else.
On the coast path, there's a fine dividing line between the monoculture of the wheat fields and the strip of cliff edge where the flowers grow. Beyond the subsidised farmland, there's thrift, sea campion, speedwell, ragged robin, foxgloves and wild roses, with honeysuckle and ox-eye daises escaped from gardens. Everything is in its right place, before and after. Out at sea, the flood tide meets an opposite wind, creating a blocky wind-chop. The fishing boats are all in harbour and the seals holed up in sheltered coves, waiting for a change in the weather.
At the headland, there's a strong tide-race close to shore. The ferry sails to Ireland, unaffected by the prevailing swell. Gannets swirl above the meeting currents, dropping like sharped stones into the grey-blue water. There are dark shapes breaching among the broken waves. I sit and watch the pod of dolphins feeding. For the first time all week, an hour passes quickly. Time to think about what I need to do next.
sea cave --
a jellyfish caught
between tides
