Fishy Tales of the Sea
I don’t really know why it took so long for the notion to remove my shoes and socks thudded somewhere between my ears and announced itself. The proverbial bolting horse had long since abandoned the stable and was grazing contentedly several fields away by now and my feet were distinctly damp, but remove the moistened green trail runners I did and the socks along with them, placing them at a judicious distance further up the beach. I rolled my trouser legs up around my shins as far as gravity would allow, but of course it never works properly. I’d have put my wellies on as usual but I’d been talked into parking outside a total stranger’s house in a quiet cul de sac that Lee and his wife had discovered recently and I didn’t want to hang around waiting for the occupants to introduce themselves.
Cornwall is bulging with visitors throughout the summer months, especially at a time when so many of us in Britain have decided not to cross international borders, and I usually shy away from popular places at this time of the year, waiting for the quieter seasons to return so I can wander around in peace. So it was my first visit to the coast in a while, absorbed in tales of last month’s visit to Wales as I have been (and there are more of those to follow), but some of the familiar hallmarks of an evening by the sea were at hand, ready to ease me back into my most regular of haunts at Gwithian. The creased brow as I searched out a suitable foreground; the sun disappearing behind a bank of low cloud before we could even get started; my favourite lens cloth making its one hundred and eighteenth bid for freedom as it escaped my coat pocket and did its best to get carried out to sea. How on earth that eight square inches of rag remains in my possession after so long I’ve really no idea. The fact that it’s the one I almost lose on such a regular basis tells you how often I have it close at hand in preference to the others in the bag.
We were further from the lighthouse than usual and I’d decided to look for patterns in the sand to use in whatever my shot might be instead. Dave was doing similar while Lee, a man who changes his camera more often than most of us change our toothbrushes returned to the higher ground of the dunes behind us to test out his new acquisition – a bargain basement eBay special. I struggle enough to understand one camera so I’ve really no idea how he manages to change from an entire system to another with apparent ease. A paraglider hovered above us, and the obligatory dog walkers came and went with their canine companions. As we began to settle, three hundred odd runners moved at varying speeds from west to east along the long stretch of sand between Hayle and Godrevy. I vaguely remembered somebody telling me that Freedom Racing had returned with the coastal Summer Sessions events after a year of absence. I’d taken part in each of the last three annual races here in those green trail runners lying a few yards behind my back, and knew that while the elite athletes would cover the ten kilometres in comfortably under forty minutes, the tail enders would be out on the course until after dark. For a moment I sensed again the guilt of not keeping up with my running exploits of recent years, but then I remembered I needed to find some foreground if I wanted a shot.
I tried some paw prints left by one of those happy pooches not long earlier, and then I trained the camera on a couple of long strands of seaweed, which were pointing enigmatically towards the sea that they’d arrived from. Then I noticed Dave had found a dead Compass Jellyfish on the shore. Once you notice one you realise you’ve been blind to the many that surround you at the water’s edge. Every few yards of inspection would reveal another expired glutinous mass lying inert in the sand, unearthly forms that clearly have no business being on dry land. Quite why they're here in such numbers I dread to think. Over and over I’d try to catch one as the incoming surf washed over it, only for the tripod and the dead jellyfish to move at the vital moment. Inevitably my subject would find itself washed a few yards further up the beach, and inevitably it would be lying upside down after its short journey.
Dave had finished, and he wandered back towards me to see how I was getting on; as it happened at the exact moment when I got what I’d been hoping for. So far my screen showed a series of blurs, but finally a generous and gentle sheen of seawater advanced towards us and this time the jellyfish stayed rooted to the sand for just long enough as we hooted with laughter at the absurdity of what we were doing. The incoming wave continued further up the beach, collecting a pair of green trail runners as it retreated. Saved in the nick of time my shoes were now as sodden as the sea itself. I looked at the back of the camera once more and this time the result looked promising. Around us the light turned into shadows and the adventure was complete. We wandered back over the dunes in the gathering dusk, smiling through the darkness at the fun we'd had and hoping we might eventually work out how to get back to the car. Lee sat patiently waiting on a wall, perhaps having forgotten that we’d arrived here in my car. Which of course meant that I had the keys.
It was one of the more bizarre outings of recent times, but all the more memorable for it. Most importantly, it felt great to be out in the local stomping ground once more. Autumn waits in the wings, and so does the playground we call home.
Fishy Tales of the Sea
I don’t really know why it took so long for the notion to remove my shoes and socks thudded somewhere between my ears and announced itself. The proverbial bolting horse had long since abandoned the stable and was grazing contentedly several fields away by now and my feet were distinctly damp, but remove the moistened green trail runners I did and the socks along with them, placing them at a judicious distance further up the beach. I rolled my trouser legs up around my shins as far as gravity would allow, but of course it never works properly. I’d have put my wellies on as usual but I’d been talked into parking outside a total stranger’s house in a quiet cul de sac that Lee and his wife had discovered recently and I didn’t want to hang around waiting for the occupants to introduce themselves.
Cornwall is bulging with visitors throughout the summer months, especially at a time when so many of us in Britain have decided not to cross international borders, and I usually shy away from popular places at this time of the year, waiting for the quieter seasons to return so I can wander around in peace. So it was my first visit to the coast in a while, absorbed in tales of last month’s visit to Wales as I have been (and there are more of those to follow), but some of the familiar hallmarks of an evening by the sea were at hand, ready to ease me back into my most regular of haunts at Gwithian. The creased brow as I searched out a suitable foreground; the sun disappearing behind a bank of low cloud before we could even get started; my favourite lens cloth making its one hundred and eighteenth bid for freedom as it escaped my coat pocket and did its best to get carried out to sea. How on earth that eight square inches of rag remains in my possession after so long I’ve really no idea. The fact that it’s the one I almost lose on such a regular basis tells you how often I have it close at hand in preference to the others in the bag.
We were further from the lighthouse than usual and I’d decided to look for patterns in the sand to use in whatever my shot might be instead. Dave was doing similar while Lee, a man who changes his camera more often than most of us change our toothbrushes returned to the higher ground of the dunes behind us to test out his new acquisition – a bargain basement eBay special. I struggle enough to understand one camera so I’ve really no idea how he manages to change from an entire system to another with apparent ease. A paraglider hovered above us, and the obligatory dog walkers came and went with their canine companions. As we began to settle, three hundred odd runners moved at varying speeds from west to east along the long stretch of sand between Hayle and Godrevy. I vaguely remembered somebody telling me that Freedom Racing had returned with the coastal Summer Sessions events after a year of absence. I’d taken part in each of the last three annual races here in those green trail runners lying a few yards behind my back, and knew that while the elite athletes would cover the ten kilometres in comfortably under forty minutes, the tail enders would be out on the course until after dark. For a moment I sensed again the guilt of not keeping up with my running exploits of recent years, but then I remembered I needed to find some foreground if I wanted a shot.
I tried some paw prints left by one of those happy pooches not long earlier, and then I trained the camera on a couple of long strands of seaweed, which were pointing enigmatically towards the sea that they’d arrived from. Then I noticed Dave had found a dead Compass Jellyfish on the shore. Once you notice one you realise you’ve been blind to the many that surround you at the water’s edge. Every few yards of inspection would reveal another expired glutinous mass lying inert in the sand, unearthly forms that clearly have no business being on dry land. Quite why they're here in such numbers I dread to think. Over and over I’d try to catch one as the incoming surf washed over it, only for the tripod and the dead jellyfish to move at the vital moment. Inevitably my subject would find itself washed a few yards further up the beach, and inevitably it would be lying upside down after its short journey.
Dave had finished, and he wandered back towards me to see how I was getting on; as it happened at the exact moment when I got what I’d been hoping for. So far my screen showed a series of blurs, but finally a generous and gentle sheen of seawater advanced towards us and this time the jellyfish stayed rooted to the sand for just long enough as we hooted with laughter at the absurdity of what we were doing. The incoming wave continued further up the beach, collecting a pair of green trail runners as it retreated. Saved in the nick of time my shoes were now as sodden as the sea itself. I looked at the back of the camera once more and this time the result looked promising. Around us the light turned into shadows and the adventure was complete. We wandered back over the dunes in the gathering dusk, smiling through the darkness at the fun we'd had and hoping we might eventually work out how to get back to the car. Lee sat patiently waiting on a wall, perhaps having forgotten that we’d arrived here in my car. Which of course meant that I had the keys.
It was one of the more bizarre outings of recent times, but all the more memorable for it. Most importantly, it felt great to be out in the local stomping ground once more. Autumn waits in the wings, and so does the playground we call home.