The wind was blowing hard Saturday evening, whipping stinging sand across my face and arms.  The low sun turned the dunes orange, throwing sawgrass shadows across their tops.  Sailboats and ferries crossed the blue channel of the harbour entrance, Old Harry Rocks in the distance.  A group of teens tended their fire pit and drank cheap beer in a hollow, shadowed from the elements.

I sat, cross legged, on the crest and surveyed the peaked tents and broad arena below.  I’d expected that Beach Polo was a cross between Volleyball and Water Polo, but there were no nets or goals deployed.

There were, instead, Ponies and a lot of well-heeled spectators.  A big orange ball, lots of mallets, flying hooves and sand, lots of cheers and oohs from the stands.

‘Actual Polo, sort of.

The event is detailed at the British Beach Polo site.  The spectator-level pictures, above, are from promotional sites: I was too far away to get good detail.  Tickets ranged from £25 (General 1-Day) to £60 (Extended, Beach after-party), and it looks like it could be an intriguing novelty that might be good fun next year.

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Sunday began drizzly and grey after a restless night, then deteriorated onwards.  I was, nonetheless, determined to attend the Grooves on the Green music event in Ashley Park.  It was a bit desultory on arrival: a couple of bands playing to a dozen or so people, food and drink vendors looking damp and forlorn.  Children jumped in puddles (the bouncy-slide was closed down), trying to splash parents huddled beneath bright umbrellas.

The planners had tried to work up a tropical theme for the Calling Stage and novelty groups like Funkathon (with the big hair, below).  The main stage struggled with transitions between larger, more polished acts.

It was the exact opposite to the sunny Sandbanks Beach event of the prior evening, but more congenial (and better beer).

I am always surprised at how quickly circumstances can change.  At the end of May, the immediate environment seemed stable and future prospects were good.  The businesses were reaching long-established goals and I was looking forward to having a week back in Maastricht to sort the car and the mail, visit a couple of mooie dorpen, and catch up with disconnected friends.

All of that went into reverse on the way to Dover Ferry Terminal.  The phone rang, the news broke, and I turned back west.  36 hours later, I was on a plane to the US,  offline for the next two weeks.

The flow follows its own channel.

On returning to the UK, the house was in turmoil.  The kids had broken up, Greek Mom was quitting her job, and the whole group was making sudden plans to return to Greece. 

‘Perhaps good to wait the currency crisis out? I suggested. 

όχι: an emphatic No that foreshadowed the vote.  They were packed and gone within days. 

The house has reverted to quiet, emptiness, with just the  cardiologist there when she’s not traveling.

During the days, I plunge into work and travel to meetings.  I delivered a pitch to the Kent Investors Network at the Medway Yacht Club, a personally aspirational venue.   It lies on the River Medway, nine miles off the Thames across from the historic Chatham Dockyards.  I’ve marked the spot for a future visit, then rambled the banks for a couple of hours taking in the tideflats and sailboats as I practiced my delivery.

I visited Cambridge as well, celebrating the MBE class graduation with a wonderful dinner at Clare Hall.  The conversations and speeches were fun and insightful as always.  It’s good to meet colleagues and to share stories and contacts ahead of  the summer breaks.

Weekends were spent traveling as well, sometimes across Poole Swanage and Sandbanks, other times in London or Reading.

The Tate Modern is presenting geometric works by Agnes Martin, a New Mexico-based abstractionist.  While the colors were reminiscent of the vivid desert hues in Santa Fe / O’Keefe works, the representations were finely detailed parallel lines and grids.  Neither mosaic puzzles nor moire hallucinations, it was hard to find significance or meaning.  I only offer respect that someone put that much effort into achieving that precision in their drafting.

Time would be better spent among the Hepworth sculptures across the river.

The summer crowds are arriving in Dorset, filling the choice bluffs, café’s, beaches (and parking).  Not one to compete with that at midday, I’ve begun to take mornings along the water with coffee and a cake.  My days are starting slowly anyway, musty motivation following restless nights to an early rise.

It took a few weeks before I had the heart to pick up the camera and my #100HappyDays project on Instagram.  But I’m back to posting two a day, if only to remind myself how the vistas across water and rocks, sailboats and sunsets, remain constant, lovely, and familiar alongside life’s unpredictable story.

The house residents were up early this morning.  I’d like to think that it was sunshine, breezes, yoghurt and blueberries at the beach that motivated everyone.  But Greek-mom was working on her English, I was finishing pitch-prep, and the kids had an early shift cooking.  Only the cardiologist was sleeping in after late duty in imaging.

This really needed to change.

Boat show?  I asked, making sailing motions with my fingers.  Greek-mom brightened and slapped her books shut.   “Ready at 10,”, she offered,  continuing into a mixed language soliloquy.  In a full and happy (Greek) life, one needs regular doses of (in order of importance) relaxation, warm sun, blue water, and strong coffee. 

Tik-tik-tik-tik…,” “she motioned, mimicking my heavy-handed typing and shaking her head.

I get the message.

The car warmed up along with the day (although 12C-Dorset qualified as “mild winter” for the Greeks), and off we went to Poole.  The First Annual Poole Harbour Boat Show was spread across the Old Town Quay, a mix of tall ships, new motor- and sail- boats, and tents with every water-related charity imaginable.

I wandered the decks of the tall ship, lusted for a 57-foot sailboat (“only £800 per day charter, Isle of Wight and back,” suggested the salesman, hopefully).

Out on the water, a group of dingy-sailors practiced figure-8’s.  The Dorset Wrecks sang a cappella sea shanties from the music stage.

Time for a break, people-watching over thick Italian brew and sugary cakes.  Greek-mom said that one should always spend more than 5 hours when a table and coffee are available, talking, laughing,and tanning. 

I allowed half that, absorbing a mix of  Greek culture and politics, a mother’s worries about her daughter, and the (familiar) trials of residency and national insurance registration in the UK.

‘all in all, a nice event and a lovely day to (almost) be on the water.

It began with Broken Dreams.

The long tents gleamed against a black ragged storm line moving to the south.  Children’s laughter mingled with Scottish pipes and drums; the smoke and smell of hog roast and curry kebabs drifted across the fields. 

A three-day weekend, Reading UK: the annual Beer and Cider Festival was underway.

I always  think of these as an autumn activity, hops and apples harvested, pressed, yielding cloudy alcoholic drinks suited to crisp, colorful afternoons.  British spring is more Pimms and Strawberries (although, like pancakes and fondants, the tradition isn’t local to my life in Dorset).

Beer festivals have a common form and function across the UK (likely shared in the US). 

Barrels of craft brew, labeled by type, nickname, and strength, are arranged around the perimeter of a huge tent, the center filled with long collapsible tables.  There are  food and craft stalls, separate zones for wine, foreign beers, and ciders.

Admission (£7.50) buys a commemorative pint glass (refundable on exit). A family-friendly area with games and play parks keeps the kids busy; clever shirts are on offer from disconcertingly painted youth.

Indoors, clutching my glass, I walk the kegs, looking for a match.  It’s a bit like picking race horses: Bad Day at the Office (heavy hop bitterness and strong fruit), Goddess of Spring (rich pink Farmhouse Saison, sour mashed and aged for weeks), or Pressed Rat & Warthog (Ruby coloured, complex, perhaps not in the traditional sense, mild fanatics and bitter lovers will be satisfied and wanting more).

‘Something dark and rich? I murmur to the  server, as though making a drug deal.  He slips me 50 ml to taste; we critique it together.  I buy 1/3 pint and go outside to linger over the ale, rolling it around, passing it around.  A bite of food, then back in for the next.

Broken Dreams is the sentimental first choice (Deep and complex, she lurks in your imagination, binding smoke and coffee aromas with chocolate, milk and oats to create something thick, velvety and slick).

Black Prince shows promise (black and crystal malts produce a dark rich ale with a toasty flavour), alongside Engineers Best (an easy drinking beer).

Conclusion draws a crowd of Indian drinkers (A rich silky dark beer with notes of figs, raisins and dark chocolate. Bitter, yet sweet)

These events invariably turn into warm, relaxed afternoons, enjoying sun and conversation, swapping stories and people-watching. 

‘little need for dinner afterwards and so early-to-bed.  Luckily, I ended with  Dreamweaver (well balanced ale: Cascade and Amarillo hops give beautiful citrus and pine notes).