Sixty years ago, Parkstone Bay was the base for a fleet of flying boats that connected England to the world.  Imperial Airways relocated from Southampton to Poole in 1939.   The British Overseas Airways Corporation (BOAC, the  predecessor of British Airways) was formed in 1940.   Bournemouth Airport operated as BOAC’s trans-Atlantic hub from 1944 as a transAtlantic hub until operations transferred to Heathrow in 1946.  There were extensive flight tracks laid across Poole Harbour for takeoff and landings (below).

Today, the planes are gone, the air facilities converted to boatyards.  Trans-European flights still take place, though: The bay was converted to  Parkstone Bay Local Nature Reserve, supporting a variety of migratory birds with the RSPB.

 

I came down to the park early this morning – its going to be a terrible week ahead and I needed a bit of peaceful space to think.  I like to game game the goals, boundaries, roles and scenarios so that I know how my responses when things take a turn.  It’s especially important since these meetings deal with perceived  injustices where I have little control.  I need the emotion behind me, or I’ll only focus on having my say instead of listening and solving.

So, a couple of hours meander among the rocks and reeds, the water and the wind was welcome.   I looked for good images (the child’s bouncy castle set against the adult variety, the sailboats shadowing the ferry); I sat on the rocks and sipped warm coffee and reflected on the history.

Mostly, though I just enjoyed the Sunday morning quiet. 

   

Weekends always mean more when the week has been particularly demanding.   A bit of spring warmth arrived as well, so it was a good day to drive over to Pangbourne-on-Thames for some time along the Thames riverbanks

If you’re a commuter who fancies yourself a squire, Pangbourne is the place for you, gushes the Guardian.  Fancy yourself at the end of a hard day, not to crack open the G&T, butr poised to stride off with Rover through coppices atop the North Wessex Downs, checking for foxes and, who knows, wild boar.

I count at least three words and several concepts in there that were not part of the Test, strides still to be made.

We completed work on the business plan revisions this week, hopefully putting the gloss to it this weekend and ready to start shopping it.  The two biggest changes are to swap the clinical trial for regulatory approval in the schedule and to start work earlier on new applications. 

They seem small, but they’ve received enthusiastic reviews in early outings to shareholders and investors, who perceive less risk and greater value in the company’s plans as a result. 

Hopefully, this lets us complete the final quarter of the raise quickly.

A misty rain washed over the bridge to the civil parish, dimming the river and forcing the fishermen into tight huddles over their poles.  The river steamer started a lazy turn, the swans tucked into the brush along the shore.  Bare trees bent low over the single-lane road into old Whitchurch, the church itself closed tight and silent.

My HX-9V camera is reaching its twilight years, finicky about starting and sensitive to daylight.  I’ve been researching the alternatives and visiting advisors at local camera stores.  I’d like to step up towards an RX100, not yet ready for a dSLR, and am comparing specs that I’ve learned in my photography course.

I’m thinking about video as well.  Jonah Kessel, a journalist working in China, was interviewed on Sinica this week, and he made a nice comparison of still and video photography.  I really like his work, and the flexibility would be good for experimenting  for storytelling and scene-setting.

Out along the Thames Walk, then.  The water was low and lazy, just a smattering of houseboats tied up ahead of the season.  with just, the only colour along the banks today.    A few walkers passed with dogs and children, enjoying the day silently, staying on the worn, muddy path.  I ventured across the floodplains, grassy wetlands transiting to crisply brown undergrowth, crunching at each step.

Is it okay to do nothing, wondered the Shrink and Sage a year ago.  After a period of work, it may be appropriate to just flop for a while and reconnect, ventured the Shrink. Against the perennial temptation to believe something must be done, doing nothing is often the more courageous and fruitful path, reassured the Sage.

I nudge the bracken to see if I can flush a butterfly, admire the daffodils, a bit more Tootle than philosopher.  "Stay on the rails no matter what,” was the lesson of that story. ‘Never a moral that I took to heart.

A nice afternoon off, in any case.  A meander, a chat; capturing the light and releasing some ideas that have been percolating back in Poole. The clocks jump ahead in the US tonight: not quite summer yet, but a taste of Berkshire spring will do.

Abbotsbury?  I frowned, running a finger down a list of bistro’s and galleries.  At least a few were open on a Sunday, and I jotted down a couple of post codes.  A bit off the path, but not that far a drive. The map showed a village straddling the winding coast road, a few clustered buildings.  The weather forecast was for increasing wind and rain all along the Heritage Coast as a warm front blew in from the southwest.

   

I tossed in the walking sticks and a jumper, eased the car out of the Lilac Court and spun west.  TomTom chirped happily at being on the road again.

It’s been a nice weekend so far.   I’ve been catching up with the house and shopping, reading and cooking (plum-ginger duck from the butcher).  The Shrink and Sage are debating whether Life’s Options Should Remain Open (How can you give yourself to one life when lots of different ones are out there waiting to be explored?).   It brings back rueful thoughts: I have a lot of hard-learned ripostes to ward off that past temptation.

The Amazing Race punted through Oxford on Friday.  Closer to home, there’s steady progress in the business, better family medical and job news to celebrate.  My half-term flights and bookings are finally sorted for the first real vacation in well over a year.   A lovely seafood restaurant in old town Poole proved perfect for marking life’s waypoints.

Still, I rose too early for Sunday morning, restless and ruminating.  I drove down to  the waterfront to catch the morning light and fresh-baked croissants. 

I knew that work would take the day if I didn’t leave my desk and get out of the house.

Where is there art and food west of Weymouth? 

Abbotsbury: ‘Google’s dart thrown onto the Jurassic coast.

It’s an interesting suggestion: the South West Coast Path meanders through literary Chesil Beach and up into the hills above Fleets Lagoon, a vast tidal inlet bordering the coast from Weymouth. Scenic, at least.

But, on arrival, those higher reaches were absolutely howling wind, hair pretty much blowing sideways off my head.  Lively and fun: the views were spectacular and there were few other early autumn walkers to disturb the ambience (and the sheep).

 

Abbotsbury proved to be a small stone village, nestled in a hollow about a half-mile from the sea.  There was a charming tea café, soups and cakes, and some good works by local artists (Joan Scott and Debbie Vietch, left and right below).

   

I’ve always aspired to being able to do a watercolour landscape, or pen and wash, like these.  ‘maybe when I catch up with the Peaceful Life one of these days (cue my friends’ giggles).

Chesil Beach lies about a mile from town, again along the South West Coast Path.  More protected from the wind, it took about 45 minutes to get to the ‘beach’, which turned out to be entirely made of red gravel, flanked by a huge berm.  It’s a scramble to get to the top, but the red-orange textures against the blue sea match the artists depictions.

Thomas Hardy called it Deadman’s Bay: it’s been the site of many shipwrecks over the centuries, boats caught among the shifting pebbles.  But the novel, The Well-Beloved, is more philosophical and tender: it spins the story of Jocelyn Pierston, a sculptor obsessed with possessing the transcendent beauty he believes lie in both love and art.  He never attains his heart’s desire, unable to find perfection in stone or flesh. 

But he does stand at the same spot:

To the left of them the sky was streaked like a fan with the lighthouse rays, and under their front, at periods of a quarter of a minute, there arose a deep, hollow stroke like the single beat of a drum, the intervals being filled with a long-drawn rattling, as of bones between huge canine jaws. It came from the vast concave of Deadman’s Bay, rising and falling against the pebble dyke.

  

Viewed from the berm, as Hardy saw it, the cove is likely much as its always been: fishermen and walkers and the wind along the hills.  Seacoast overlaid, now, with creative art, romantic literature, historic Abbotsbury.

‘all from a dart on a map.

Autumn has thudded into northern Europe this weekend: grey skies and rain, dark until 7 am and cold at noon.  It’s sudden, last week I was enjoying coffee and conversation in shirtsleeves at Branksome Beach, now it’s a hearty pasta casserole out of the oven.  I’ve started dreaming of half-term trips to warmer climates and got bookings in over the weekend – ‘better to have something tangible to look forward to than to sigh over the changing seasons.

We’re in a particularly intense period of work at the moment, fundraising and preproduction, clinical trials and commercial agreements.  It’s keeping me pinned to the desk working the phones and emails for long days, most weekdays.

I still get up (too) early to do the household things, get out to shop and exercise midafternoon, spend time writing friends and cooking in the evenings, but it’s really not the change of scenery that my mind and body need to stay healthy.

Enter the weekend, and the Thames Path.

The Path is a national trail, extending from the Cotswalds to Greenwich along the Thames River.  ‘mostly flat and meandering from village to village, it scenic and not too challenging, a great way to find pubs, watch boats, and enjoy the changing colours in the trees and skies.

  

Conversations often meander like the path, a discussion of ‘wizened’ (‘creased with laugh and wisdom lines’ or ‘wrinkled, shrunken, and desiccated’) or ‘resilience’ (better to be able to bounce back by virtue of experience, positive attitude, and problem-solving ability, or to arrange a ‘peaceful’ life so that there’s less need to call upon it?). 

Other times it might be speculation on whether UK license plate numbers have any meaning (they do, but the Dutch don’t) or why we embrace end-item-testing in education (comprehensive exams) when most production systems  have abandoned it as a way of ensuring quality.

The walks have only been along short sections or the Path and are apt to wander off into churchyards and side roads if the mood strikes.

And they invariably lead, not to attainment of a waypoint, but to a sit by the river and a shared drink and nibble, watching the boats and swans, speculating about the people at the next table.

The right tonic for a busy week, passed, and to mark the passing season.

Exmoor National Park was created the year that I was born, so birthdays are fitting occasions to visit this remote stretch of hills and cliffs straddling Devon and Somerset.  With moors to the south and 34 miles of rugged coastland bordering Bristol Bay to the north, the park is a wonderful place to hike and to take pictures.  The towns and hamlets are historic and picturesque, and the summer crowds haven’t really descended yet, allowing time to meander and to take it all in.

 

The central portion of the coast protects the paired communities of Lynton and Lynmouth.  The latter was destroyed in 1952 during a flash flood that swept down the gorge above town.  Today, the river is carefully diverted and hotels are nestled well above the valley.  The restaurants are excellent as well (fish ’n chip art is fanciful, but there was excellent duck as well).

  

But I thought that the best times were out in the sunshine and up on the cliffs doing some hiking along the rocks.  The areas near Valley of the Rocks and out towards Combe Martin Bay were outstanding on a nice day.

   

More to see on my Flickr site