A reflective look at some of the fantastic photographs taken on our walking workshops - with four more submissions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Building

Near the ferry terminal is the ice cream kiosk with sloping roof.  Out of sight, is a sloping roof at the rear, of concrete. The roof at the rear one can walk on. This gives a view across the bay and estuary. The steps that lead up the side of the kiosk to the hidden viewpoint are famous. They are known as “the John Lennon steps”.  I think the famed Beatle was brought here on family holidays when young. To find, play, and jump off, this secret roof space, onto the sands of the Ferry Beach or to dream while taking in the peace of the view, is a joy to a child now, the same as to John Lennon age 9.

David Conroy

 

Flotsam 

 

Washed up, salted and dried out.

A fading beauty, over exposed,

curled up at the edges by searing sun

 

through cold, lonely nights. 

 

 

Surfed in by an easy wave,

 

stranded in the rock pool.

I try to climb out.

Almost made it,

the tide was against me,

sweeps in too often.

Tumbles me back into the pit. 

 

I crave comfort from the sea,

reclamation by the tide.

Deep briny darkness calls me home.  

Adele V Robinson

  

Walk Of The White Lady

Footsteps echo, crunch and turn

Talk a walk and let us learn…

River swirl, let it fall

As the White Lady begins to call

Shadows of a distant past

Let my love so sweetly last

I see the church, a painted spire

Like earth’s core my heart on fire

Ring that bell a faraway chime

Strike and bellow let it rhyme

Sodden to the very core

Let it rain – begin to pour

As the wet starts to spray

Tractors lift, bring in the hay

 

A hawthorn bushy full in flower

Our walk is done within the hour 
 

Pam Tufnell

 

 

  

The Net Weaver’s Cottage
 

Board-blinkered windows smother out the light.

Squeaking screws squeezed sunshine out that day.

When steel lock clacked down for the final time,

the sand-whipped lime-wash would not fade away.

Integrity of cobbles could not rest

and grew through tarmac’s crumbling, tenuous grip.

Discarded coils of hemp, an empty nest

dreamt its weave with sea foam at its lips.

What fate befell the rough and clever hands.

whose left thumb wore this sneck to golden gleam,

whose skin snagged workings clinched the trawler’s land

in mining Irish water’s living seam?

What grit is left of pearl tales partly told,

imprisoned in jet and frozen in the cold? 
 

Heather Taylor