Wittering whilst on West Wittering!
West Wittering. The golden child of the Sussex coast. Grains of yellow lint spill freely, lovingly through my fingers. Like pollen, some stick to my sweating palms in the heat of this mid-July day. Yellow glitter; acres of it, stretching out for miles; each golden segment separated only by wooden posts. It dances gracefully under the sun’s glimmering spotlight.
The tide is way way out. A few dozen people are scattered like poppyseeds; bodyboarding or windsurfing over white-tipped crests. Kayaking, paddling. Swimming 50, 70, 100 metres away. Young children splash, small tsunamis amongst the gently rippling waves. Dogs crash clumsily, matted fur soaking into soft wet, charging after bobbing tennis balls. Two mountainous bear-like Alsatians own the strip; panting, long pink tongues flopping, tails wagging ferociously in delight.
On the beach, the sand carpet is plentiful. An inviting welcome mat to tired walkers’ legs and procrastinators alike. Cracks of oyster clam shells lie carelessly with tendrils of tangled black seaweed, baking to parchment under the sun’s relentless glare. A Liquorice Allsorts assortment of pebbles and stones are randomly strewn, lying patiently where the sea has crudely spat them out in its tidal fury.
A few lone tourists and hikers take a short respite and rest whilst water sports enthusiasts are lost to the rest of us, deep concentration as proudly they conquer the waves. The odd sunbather lies face-down or into the crinkled pages of a book, sinking into the soft folds of the saffron shingle, the sun’s outstretched fingers kneading heat into browning flesh.
It’s still quiet; the third week in July and not all of the children have broken up from school; though the few who’ve broken free from the shackles of incarceration celebrate release; they shriek, dance, build structures and tunnels of sand and wood. They throw themselves to Poseidon with abandon as only the truly young and free do. Really, it’s a bittersweet joy to watch. I feel something inside me begin to stir; the fragments of a deeply-embedded long ago memory start to prick at my skin. I feel my eyes closing under the enveloping warmth of the aubade; here I can be lifted and rolled back. Time falling away like the caress of the tiny granules of sand disappearing between my fingers.
Rachel C Birchley 