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Tuesday, 27 September 2011, Rye. Now I’m in the hut, watching the rain, on the far side of the Atlantic, wondering if the sea will allow us out on the lobster boat. Did the swan thing really happen? The mother of all swan pedalos (a legendary 12-seater) is to be found on a pond in [...] Friday, 23 September 2011. Winchelsea Beach to Rye.
We hadn’t been out at sea more than a couple of hours when rumours started to drift after us from Hastings: our swan theft had launched a cult. Call it, as the boys did, chewing at their miserly roll-ups with salted lips, ‘morphic resonance’. You can [...] Thursday, 22 September 2011. Hastings Old Town to Winchelsea Beach
Once upon a time, on the south coast of Britain, a naked man enveloped in a quilt of swan feathers haunted the pebbled shore, nursing a bottle of fine wine, purchased early each morning at a minimart catering for a loose association of cheerful [...] Wednesday. 21 September 2011. Hastings Old Town. It worked, the casting of wine on the waves, the small sacrifice of burger buns to gulls: the sea was no longer peevish, it was raging. Tom’s kinetic effects were in play, white-foamed crest chased crest. Our swan, still nameless, sat brooding on her nest of stones. Like [...] Tuesday. 20 September 2011. Hastings Old Town. They sit, one on either side of me, on the bench facing Swan Lake, the wetsuit minders, call them Tom and Tom. Our backs are resolutely set against the misbehaving sea. We are waiting, as always, for the crew to unstick themselves from the curried depths of [...] |
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