Braunton Burrows

"Witness", the final piece of the Braunton Collection (March - June 2007, pictured top).
More pen and crayon distractions.

Transition-eve. It's cool with darts of sunshine. I am going to miss these stinging bursts of vivid hues. Chaotic scatter of new life sprouting everywhere from garden plots layered with green geometrics, weedy trodden tracks beside streams so pregnant with laughter she rushes bridges and bends to unfurl intermittent stationary waves...

Such luggage.
I wrangled the ownership of the Cord for a tidy sum. I run my fingers over her rails in the warm solace of the Anchorage's attic. I sense her hum. From some distant memory I can feel that Claudia remembers what will come on her journey north and west to those sands of Sligo - she remember the rocks of the reefs to come also. We are there already, coming.

It saddens me a little, coming to terms with the fact that I'll never farewell Pinky traditionally (add dramatic sigh here), she was sold to the surf school also for a tidy sum and yet... there seems something odd about the deal - as if I were selling Pinky to some evil trader who deigned the remainder of her existence to be a filthy perversion - whoring her handsome curves out to an endless train of frothing, 2nd-lesson-surf-dudes, freshly wired from the weekend city-come-down, keen to shoot the curl.
Mother earth... what have I done?

I've a more that average general apathy wafting about me.
Scored a lift across country from the Anchorage here all the way west Wales where that hulking white meat & metal transport idles at rest. Strap it all down and get me the hell out of here, via a night out in Bristol of course.
Obligatory research & development - must keep the records up to date, you understand.

I'm expecting a chilly Friday evening. I'll be lurking in the peripheries of that Wexford port. Waiting, filing my patience smooth with eyes trained on the gates for a 93 Vito Merc.
He's drilling out the bulkhead so the boards'll fit.