Across the pond

After the pre-Spring sunshine of the Easter Bank holiday the weather has turned seriously nasty down here in Lyme Bay. The wind howled around our bungalow all night, even waking me, who slept through raids by Hitler’s Luttwaffe. (Factual note: I was not under hostile fire. By the time the planes reached Wolverhampton they had unloaded nearly all their bombs. The noise came from the drone of the plane engines and the shots fired by the pom pom guns based at the air field behind our house.)

By the time we sallied down to the beach around 10 AM in drizzling rain the wind had dropped. But the waves were still battering the beach. Sweeping in, withdrawing, then coming in again to land powerful blows on the crumbling cliffs. An impressive show of strength. But although it was near high tide, the waves did not reach the line of driftwood and assorted debris on the beach, which marks the advance of the real storm just under two weeks ago, when the wind reached Gale Force 12. That night the sea flooded the car park and the hurled the debris inland as far as the footbridge over the River Char.

There was one brave surfer struggling to mount the waves. What he lacked in skill he made up for in tenacity. Time and time again he pulled himself upright and rode the crest of a big wave, only to plunge frum sight when the next wave smacked him down.

By the time we had walked back to the cafe, the sun was had broken through and it was warm enough to sit outside for coffee.

This is the life, I thought. And remembering that this blog is part of the manic depressive diary, which is intended to reveal what it is like being an MD, it occurred to me that I have not been seriously depressed since I moved here nearly eight months ago.

Forget shrinks. Forget pills.

They are puny compared with the healing powers of the sea and the shore.