It’s true, I have been on a bit of a single-track of late. At home I’ve done plenty, I’ve been doing more hours at work too, but the things I often think to say, don’t tend to get said. Yesterday I was such a happy little baker, I made a loaf of bread, 13 spicy cheese and wholegrain mustard scones, flapjacks, Grannie’s Mincemeat Cake and 7 pasties. It’s not that things aren’t getting done, it’s just my blogging mojo has gone a bit out of the window. Perhaps it’s the onset of November, my nemesis month - tomorrow, I can’t believe it’s here already.

Today after visiting a little crafting shop that has just opened locally, and buying some much-needed extra crafting equipment (lovely Christmassy things!) instead of driving home I drove straight to the sea. All on my own, with just my camera and my crafty-haul. It was the same beach we watched the sun set by, the sea the same inky-blue colour, but this time the tide was low and I got to walk on the sand.

The black patches are coal, pebbles of which are brought to the shore as the result of mining and the rich coal deposits which still lie in this area. They are light to pick up and if you break them they are as pure black and as shiny as jet. Perfectly harmless they just haunt certain areas of coastline up and down the north-east. Around here little reminders remain of the past-life of this once heavily-industrialised area.

It comes in handy when you want to write your name in the sand. Or you can write your blog’s name. Whichever. It looks pretty with the black outlining.

I suppose you could say that it’s not pretty, but I find coal pretty. It’s one of nature’s many wonders. I also find it sad; coal is one of the things us human beings have plundered and wasted. Men have died to mine it in the most awful conditions. I remember them when I see a lump of coal on the beach.

I was lucky, the sea and the sand were almost mine alone. It was quiet, a couple of gulls overhead but little else.

There were other people on the beach, but it’s large enough for me to walk off at a tangent and lose them and myself completely.

[365. Day Twelve, 31st October 2007. Me, myself and my shadow.]

A visit to the beach definitely cleared my head, and prepared me for the month ahead. It made my shadow very happy indeed.  November is also the beginning of NaBloPoMo - here’s to renewed mojo and a happy November!

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Now playing: Ralph Vaughan Williams - Mass in G minor- Kyrie

If you’ve ever read The Cloudspotter’s Guide by Gavin Pretor-Pinney (and if not, why not?), then you will have been told to eliminate all forms of blue-sky thinking. I.e. that clouds are a bad thing, and that blue skies are good. I have to agree with the guy, I love clouds an awful lot. I can’t imagine a sunrise or a sunset without the clouds reflecting the sun’s rays, or a cool crisp Autumn day without a few fairweather clouds (cumulus) in the sky above my head. Not only are they interesting, provide focal points and come in all shapes and sizes (much like people), they are beautiful, transient things which are unique because they are ephemeral. Here one minute, gone the next.

We get it. I love clouds.

But I also love blue skies. Though those two seem to be mutually exclusive, I love them both. I find looking up at a blue sky, purely blue with not a hint of anything else but the odd stray contrail absolutely breathtaking. And for someone whose passion for many years was being incredibly geeky with a telescope, a cloudless sky is a necessity. What would any of us be without being able to see the stars?

However when I was sat in the craft-room this morning, with its cold north light (very good for artists, I’m told) I noticed the condensation on the window and had to snap the blue sky that was pooled in little droplets. Each little droplet magnifying a tiny bit of sky. You know, Mr. Pretor-Pinney, I think you’re a little wrong on the blue-sky thinking. Sometimes it can be a very good thing indeed.

[365, Day Ten, 29th October 2007. Blue-sky Thinking.]

It also shows I could do with using a bit more of the dehumidifier… Ho hum.

[365, Day Nine, Sunday 28th October 2007. The Christmas Frenzy Begins In Ernest.]

I told you it was coming…

[365, Day Eight, Saturday 27th October 2007. Past legacies are never forgotten.]

We’re very lucky to live as close as we do to the sea and although this particular piece of coastline isn’t as beautiful as the Sound of Mull or Dorset, Devon and Cornwall coastline, it is pretty beautiful. Like much of the north-east its beauty lies in its industrial scale and solidity. The coast, like much of Northumbria is built to last with a confidence and a sense of humour.

It’s not hard to love this place, and when the sea is barely five minutes away by car, you love it even more. Especially for my husband, who coming from the heart of England, thinks the sea is a magical thing. I can be a bit more blasé, I was born within a stone’s throw of the sea, yet it’s still such a majestical thing.

We don’t go very often, even though we said we would visit it regularly but life has a habit of getting in the way. This evening we had nothing better to do than enjoy each other’s company; a walk at dusk with the dog in-tow. Both of us were surprised when we arrived, jumped out of the car and wondered where the sand had disappeared to. There was no sand to be seen at all where usually a whole beach resides. We supposed it was a spring tide, caused by equinoxes and the moon’s position. Instead we walked along the coast path and slowly, quietly waited for the sun to begin to set.

Walking with the sea breeze - fresh and salty, the clouds above and the sea lapping at rocks below was enough to relax the mind and free the soul. Everyone should do it at least once a month - it should be compulsory.

After a while we found one single bit of sand that the sea released from its grip. The tide was going out and it left a little something - barely enough for our dog to run on - for us to stand near and be at the sea’s level.

We walked back to the car and kept our faces pointed to the West, where the sun was leaving quickly, beating a hasty retreat. It left me in the right frame of mind for work tomorrow and for the busyness of the days and weeks to come. We also found a thistle. I call it enorma-thistle because it was larger than any dinner-plate I’ve come across.

I smiled because I like thistles. I don’t like treading on them in bare feet, but sometimes I feel awfully prickly too and so me and the humble thistle share a little mutual recognition. As we drove off the sky was red, pink and inky blue. I’m awfully glad I live near the sea.

[365, Day Seven, Friday 26th October 2007. Rooftops.]

Whenever I see rows of houses, or whenever I’m up on a hilltop looking down over an endless sea of roofs, I’m reminded of the opening scenes of Mary Poppins. Granted, it’s seldom quite as visually stunning as the Thames pricked with a million chimneys all releasing their woodsmoke and soot, but it’s near enough. Those opening scenes were actual paintings done by a wonderful artist called Peter Ellenshaw, who did lots of work for Disney films. I suppose it was a childhood that thrived on Mary Poppins, and a love of Victorian London with its dingy alleyways and unsavoury characters (not so different from nowadays, I suppose. Except instead of top-hats and daggers, it’d be a gun and a hoodie…) that spurred this fascination with skylines and roofs.

So as I took G over the hills for a good long walk, I captured this scene and it again made me think of the opening credits from Mary Poppins, and how later in the film, Bert describes chimneys:

“Up where the smoke is all billowed and curled
‘Tween pavement and stars
Is the chimney sweep world
When there’s hardly no day
Nor hardly no night
There’s things half in shadow
And halfway in light
On the rooftops of London
Coo, what a sight.“

I can’t think of a more romantic phrasing for such a lovely vista.