A rambling post inspired by a rambling walk.
Today, in a complete change to my normal, entirely nocturnal, regime, I went for a pleasant afternoon walk. This is such a rare occurence for me that I felt the need to write something about it. My parents and I had taken a short trip into town to run a couple of errands, including collecting a grant application form, since I've been recommended for a place at UCL (though it could still be turned down). Following our errands we stopped off in a small harbour-front cafe, Saint Emilion, which my father and I have often frequented, for a small lunch before deciding to drive up to Jerbourg Point and take a walk along the cliff paths.
When we first arrived the sun was shining but prevented from being overly warm by a very mild breeze off the coast. Walking down the path joining the monument carpark and the cliff-walk proper (which begins at the edge of town) we were showered with small, white petals from the stunted, windswept blackthorn trees lining the path on the seaward side, spindly branches still totally bare apart from the new blossoms. On the landward side of the path the stonework of an old supporting wall had succumbed to nature, the gaps between it's moss-coated stones filled with liverwort, navelwort and clusters of campions.
Making our way to the first lookout on the path we passed a fat black bumblebee with a red tail industriously exploring the blooms of wild garlic and spanish bluebells lining the path and ignoring the much more common black and yellow striped bumblebee on the flower a few inches away. As we wandered further a swathe of thick grey cloud started to sweep across the sun while we were walking past a few lone pine trees, leaving us in pleasantly cool shade even after we passed the stretch of needle-strewn ground beneath the trees.
Reaching the point on the path where the seaward side began to fall away beneath us we were treated to a view of the slopes heading down to the cliff edge and spent a moment admiring the sweep of trees and bushes seeming to climb, layer on layer, towards the path, shaped by the daily breeze. Among the flowers a few clusters of white sea-campion and the occasional primrose began to peer through along with beautiful forget-me-nots, no bigger than pin-heads, (a shame they're called Jersey forget-me-nots!) and masses of yellow birdsfoot trefoils.
As the weather started to get damp, though not actually sure whether it had decided to rain, we began to walk back towards the car along another path past outcrops of pink granite so encrusted with lichen as to be entirely mottled grey with patches of pale green, yellow and white speckled across them. Passing back into the cover of yet more blackthorn trees, these with their blossoms still firmly attatched to the branches, we came upon five early purple orchids, each with a single spear of rich, purple-pink flowers edging up and out into the air along the landward bank of the path.
Climbing back across the headland we broke out onto tarmaced roads surrounded by fields and the back gardens of the wealthier class of unemployed pleasure-seekers, each immaculately mowed and utterly sterile. Still, the banks of the fields held spears of wild plantain almost a foot high, clusters of lamb's lettuce and real, authentic, wild buttercups, a flower I haven't seen since leaving yorkshire. With the weather beginning to turn rainy we made our way back along the roads to the car just in time to watch a curtain of rain working its way across the sea between the islands, promising a heavy, though short-lived, downpour on the drive home.
When we first arrived the sun was shining but prevented from being overly warm by a very mild breeze off the coast. Walking down the path joining the monument carpark and the cliff-walk proper (which begins at the edge of town) we were showered with small, white petals from the stunted, windswept blackthorn trees lining the path on the seaward side, spindly branches still totally bare apart from the new blossoms. On the landward side of the path the stonework of an old supporting wall had succumbed to nature, the gaps between it's moss-coated stones filled with liverwort, navelwort and clusters of campions.
Making our way to the first lookout on the path we passed a fat black bumblebee with a red tail industriously exploring the blooms of wild garlic and spanish bluebells lining the path and ignoring the much more common black and yellow striped bumblebee on the flower a few inches away. As we wandered further a swathe of thick grey cloud started to sweep across the sun while we were walking past a few lone pine trees, leaving us in pleasantly cool shade even after we passed the stretch of needle-strewn ground beneath the trees.
Reaching the point on the path where the seaward side began to fall away beneath us we were treated to a view of the slopes heading down to the cliff edge and spent a moment admiring the sweep of trees and bushes seeming to climb, layer on layer, towards the path, shaped by the daily breeze. Among the flowers a few clusters of white sea-campion and the occasional primrose began to peer through along with beautiful forget-me-nots, no bigger than pin-heads, (a shame they're called Jersey forget-me-nots!) and masses of yellow birdsfoot trefoils.
As the weather started to get damp, though not actually sure whether it had decided to rain, we began to walk back towards the car along another path past outcrops of pink granite so encrusted with lichen as to be entirely mottled grey with patches of pale green, yellow and white speckled across them. Passing back into the cover of yet more blackthorn trees, these with their blossoms still firmly attatched to the branches, we came upon five early purple orchids, each with a single spear of rich, purple-pink flowers edging up and out into the air along the landward bank of the path.
Climbing back across the headland we broke out onto tarmaced roads surrounded by fields and the back gardens of the wealthier class of unemployed pleasure-seekers, each immaculately mowed and utterly sterile. Still, the banks of the fields held spears of wild plantain almost a foot high, clusters of lamb's lettuce and real, authentic, wild buttercups, a flower I haven't seen since leaving yorkshire. With the weather beginning to turn rainy we made our way back along the roads to the car just in time to watch a curtain of rain working its way across the sea between the islands, promising a heavy, though short-lived, downpour on the drive home.
