A bright hibernal sun: warm, washed out and wintry, coming up over Chantry Marshes.
At the marsh’s end a bend in the River Alde then Orford Ness: the jutting landmass shaped like a nose. From old Norse nes.
I was here in the summer. Back then the wheat in the fields surrounding me was dry and blanched; whitened by the sun.
Rabbits scurried about; running and rustling, their white tails glimpsed in the gaps between the swaying crop.
Martins streamed overhead: chips and chirps filling the sky.
Today the fields are ploughed up. They look exhausted. The great fat clods of heavy clay earth are difficult to dig.
No sign of lapin and the martins migrated a month ago: through Europe and on into Saharan Africa heading for a place we know not where. Their destination remains a mystery.
The big Suffolk sky offers some consistency: on that July day rounded clumps of altocumulus cloudlets filled the blue.
They make a return voyage this morning, sailing across the pale autumnal azure.
This time they bring unwanted company: black clouds building behind me in the north-west. Threatening.
There’s a keen cold wind. Gusty. Troubling my hair and cooling my morning coffee.
The breath of fresh brings with it the beginning of Sagittarius season. Last night Jupiter took his place beside the moon: proud, bright and present.
November is dying. We’re in the final week now. Winter begins on the first of the coming month: so say the meteorologists.
I’ll welcome winter. There is much to savour: like my first mince pie from the local shop in Orford. It’s a homemade buttery flaky pastry triumph packed full of mincemeat.
I put my coffee on the stove lid to warm it up then burn my mouth with the next sip. It’s scalding hot. There’s plenty of heat: Tara got the fire going first thing this morning to coax everyone out of bed.
On the horizon the low sun picks out the abandoned Pagodas, in silhouette, spat out onto shingle1 over on the Ness.
Once it was a humdrum of bombs. Top Secret.
Remains of binoculars, a petrol pump.2
Not needed for nuclear testing now; abandoned to nature.
As it should be.
Searching for the Police Tower, Orford Ness by Robin Houghton.
As above.