Nothing is Permanent

This morning I watched 14 runners in bright yellow tops and bare purple legs run past my house, men and women both. In the bitterly cold air their breath hissed from them in steaming bursts like puffing geysers, but the sun was bright in a flawless blue sky, and they must have been exhilarated by their exertions. I shuddered and hugged the radiator more closely as they jogged past, thankful to be indoors. But it was too nice to stay in, and I was glad I'd arranged a walk with a friend. Wendy is in my Italian class, a retired musician who still plays the violin in amateur groups. We usually end up laughing at the same thing.

The Church at Covehithe was abandoned after most of the village fell into the sea

A huge flock of seagulls later settled on a nearby lagoon (below)

So I finally made it to Covehithe, and it didn't disappoint. In the year or more since I was last there the soft sandstone cliffs have continued to tumble onto the beach below, in some places very far below. The spectacle owes as much to this transparent evidence of the destructive power of nature as to the natural beauty of the place, especially on such a lovely day. The cliffs have eroded so much in the six years I've been visiting that the path along the top has been pushed back 20 or more feet into the field. Trees that stood well inland are now lying broken on the beach or hanging over the edge, soft footings crumbling. Totally absorbed with what I was seeing I completely forgot to photograph the scene. Fresh rockfalls were everywhere, the result of storms that have shaken the coast to its roots this week. Between 1830 and 2001, Wikipedia tells us, 500 metres of land has been lost to the sea. It's a sobering thought, and one that must weigh on the minds of the 20 remaining hamlet-dwellers every winter.

We decided to walk back along the sandy shore, but mindful of the incoming tide, the fact that there would be no escape up the treacherous walls of sandstone in an emergency, and the realisation that neither of us had a signal on our phones, we upped our pace a bit. Mild anxiety is a great spur, and we didn't even get our feet wet. Where we turned back inland it was stunning to see the great flock of seabirds settled on a lagoon, snow white against the glittering blue water.

The old road through Covehithe just drops away to nothing

This tree once flourished in the middle of a meadow

Seabirds on the lagoon

I may be joining a creative writing group. My walking friend belongs to one in Framlingham, and it seems I know the person who runs it as well as another member. I've steered clear of them up to now, but this one sounds like fun. I thought I could write about the unwelcome proliferation of pedestrian traffic in quiet villages. Another two people have just walked by. That's 16 today. It's all a bit much.