TBTE - now available with sound effects

Well, things were getting so bad (see comments to previous post) that I simply had to get out for a head-clearing walk. The sun sets so early these days that it's a mad dash to catch the last of the light immediately after collecting Small Doyle #3 from school. But it was well worth it - cold, clear and crisp - and the only nuisance was that I was too late for the cafe at which I had planned to treat myself to a large, frothy hot chocolate (disappointment level = extreme).

Anyway, here's TBTE (ie the beach this evening) - and I've just been remarkably clever (which proves that the walk worked its magic on my befuddled brain) and uploaded a video clip as well, so you can listen to the Muddy Island at dusk (and the panting noises in the background are my dog, incidentally, not me (or anyone else!)).

(If you'd like to see more photos of Mersea, Sam's taken some amazing ones on the beach recently, which you can see here, here and here. )

Here's the video :

A dull, grey day

The sea is flecked with bars of grey,
The dull dead wind is out of tune . . .
And overhead the curlews cry

(Oscar Wilde)

This very poor photo was taken at dusk - 4.40 pm - with my unsophisticated little snappy camera. I'm only including it here because it shows the largest number of Brent geese I've seen at this end of the Muddy Island so far this year. As regular readers of Musings will know, I've got rather a thing about these birds. The noise was tremendous. I took some more snaps as they flew overhead, but those were even worse than this one (can this be possible? unfortunately, yes).

Four of the geese who decided to go for a twilight swim instead of returning to the fields with the rest of the flock.

Curlews and call centres

My sincere thanks to the friend who, continuing the theme of curlew poems, sent me a link to this poem by Jeremy Hooker on the Poetry Archive website. Not only can you read the poem, you can also hear the poet reading it. Hooker says that he 'tries' to 'capture the haunting cry in words' and in my view he succeeds beautifully. A quick visit to the homepage of the Poetry Archive will be enough to get anyone going back and dipping in on a regular basis.

Isn't it sad when voicemail messages disappear of one's phone? A message on my mobile this morning warned me that some of mine were coming up for deletion in the next [different voice: 'three'] days, which reminded me of a poignant radio play I listened to, probably a couple of years ago, in which a woman had lost her dear friend (? daughter/sister . . . my memory of the facts is vague) in some catastrophe and the only link she retained with her loved one was a voicemail message, which was about to be deleted in [different voice: 'two'] days' time. What stayed in my mind was the mounting desperation with which she tried to get some sense out of the telephone call-centre staff - 'Where will the message go?' 'It's been recorded, so there must be a copy somewhere that can be saved for me? - It must exist somewhere. Why can't I keep it forever? Why can't you make an exception and not delete it? Please?' Of course, nobody could help. She listened to the voicemail for the very last time and then it was gone, forever, and with it her last tangible connection with her friend. It was a devastating scene.

Well, I'm off to see Shrek III this afternoon, so I'd better get on with some work while I can. Enjoy the curlew poem, and if anyone comes across any others on the same theme, do please send them along. I can feel an anthology coming on!