We went over to Hell’s Mouth on Sunday, a nice day, sunny and crisp - went looking for wash-up wood to burn blue with salt in our fire. There’s always plenty of wood on Hell’s Mouth, wood to burn and watch as sea blue flames flicker..
It seems like all the wash-up in the world finds its way to Hell’s Mouth. The beach is flotsam-jetsam littered – 
plastic bottles, M-way cones, seaweed, old toys, shoes, wood and orange rubber gloves like severed hands, fingers pointing accusingly back at the sea. ‘Orange glove!’ we shout each time we find one…‘Orange glove!’
You might find anything on Hell’s Mouth.
Not this day though. This day the beach is almost clear, part from some weed and tangles of rope and string. A nice day, sunny and crisp - other times, winter times, Hell’s Mouth can, will, must behave to name, wind blasting faces with cutting sand, the waves crashing, foam tumbling over sand to dune, voice sent lost a’carried away and out to sea, coats, scarves, hoods flapping-fast around bodies to trip or smother, full trees, decayed sea creatures, small islands of rock thrown out of the waves to thump hard down on sodden sand - a wide-open Hell’s Mouth of sea and shore: ‘Hold hard, hold hard!’ we always whisper.
Not today though. “Where’s all the wash-up? I wanted to make a ‘thing’. It’s been a long time since Dali’s cat”.
But all we find is a single bag of sticks and a few bits of frayed and fraying nylon rope. No chance of a ‘thing’ today then, no sculpture for me, hard to make a ‘thing’ out of rope and string. Pity, such a beautiful day - if only I’d brought my paints or a few pastels, how to capture that jut of land engulfed in blue-green sea, the swathe of storm promised sky, white topped waves, that swirling yellow sun perhaps to leave it on the beach for all that pass to see.
Maybe next time…
plastic bottles, M-way cones, seaweed, old toys, shoes, wood and orange rubber gloves like severed hands, fingers pointing accusingly back at the sea. ‘Orange glove!’ we shout each time we find one…‘Orange glove!’You might find anything on Hell’s Mouth.
Not this day though. This day the beach is almost clear, part from some weed and tangles of rope and string. A nice day, sunny and crisp - other times, winter times, Hell’s Mouth can, will, must behave to name, wind blasting faces with cutting sand, the waves crashing, foam tumbling over sand to dune, voice sent lost a’carried away and out to sea, coats, scarves, hoods flapping-fast around bodies to trip or smother, full trees, decayed sea creatures, small islands of rock thrown out of the waves to thump hard down on sodden sand - a wide-open Hell’s Mouth of sea and shore: ‘Hold hard, hold hard!’ we always whisper.
Not today though. “Where’s all the wash-up? I wanted to make a ‘thing’. It’s been a long time since Dali’s cat”.
But all we find is a single bag of sticks and a few bits of frayed and fraying nylon rope. No chance of a ‘thing’ today then, no sculpture for me, hard to make a ‘thing’ out of rope and string. Pity, such a beautiful day - if only I’d brought my paints or a few pastels, how to capture that jut of land engulfed in blue-green sea, the swathe of storm promised sky, white topped waves, that swirling yellow sun perhaps to leave it on the beach for all that pass to see.
Maybe next time…
Great picture AKH but let's have a new Thing soon. I had forgotten about the Things.
ReplyDeleteDJH commented on Facebook:
ReplyDelete"Just had a look at your beach in Wales - saw an earlier blog - you forget things too don't you? On the sloe gin blog.... who are you again?"
Looks a bit ropey to me - sorry I could not resist.
ReplyDeleteI like it,
Interesting idea.
ReplyDeleteI love that arrangement.
ReplyDeleteMy aunt told me recently that she collected driftwood over several months and was planning on dotting it around the house and garden for a bit of interest. She came home and discovered my uncle had lit a lovely fire with it all.