The sun’s warming up cliffs on Burton Bradstock beach. This is the Jurassic Coast. It feels like heaven.
The blue of the sky and the brown of the beach makes me stop, sigh, feel so glad to be alive. The sun’s low, throwing golden gleams on the ribbed cliffs. They’re rearing, crumbling like giant gingerbread.
Families cluster round a recent cliff fall.
Black labs gambol on the shards and shingle.
Fizzing sea salt rubs out arcs of dashing pawprints. Shadows of sibling cliffs shimmer in the distance. The tide’s hurling itself closer and closer. Screams and laughter carry across the still air as it catches our heels. Shapes made by the surf mirror the crenellated clifftops, tufted with grey and green.
The sun’s well and truly out. I unfurl, thaw, dream of summer, catching the X53 and splashing out with a champagne picnic. The waves chime off Chesil with a soothing, booming din. Shoes sink into crunchy sand. Time stands still, and so do we.
Someone’s playing the drums. A guitar clangs in too. There must be a band practice at Billy Bragg‘s house on the hill. (Might explain the odd city types fooling around on the beach?)
The Hive Beach Cafe is buzzing. We’ve been here before, but somehow I’ve never been captivated like this. A cup of coffee, and regretfully, we’re off, moseying home down the coast road. Portland’s shrouded in mist. We’ll come back soon.