Small Flying Rocks

24th June 2012  Sunday

My husband says it’s not very hot for central summer - he means mid summer but I think that’s what we’ll call in now. He’s invented another word for semantic dementia which I ilke much better - Semantia. It sounds more like a country of high mountains and cold lakes rather than a disease.

This afternoon we walk along the far beach at Sidmouth with the tide washing in over my toes. The red ochre cliffs tower above us like cracked castle ramparts. I think they look precarious in parts with streams of water wearing away grooves in the rock face. Suddenly we hear a deep throated rumbling and watch as a hail of red stones and dust career down onto the sand from the very top of the cliffs in front of us. People start running but by pure chance there is no - one directly in the path of the bouncing rocks and in seconds it’s as if nothing happened at all.

Later we sit on the pebbles at the other end of the beach licking double scoop ice cream chocolate dippped waffle cones - blackcurrant and clotted cream for me and walnut fudge for him. The air smells of seaweed and fried fish and chips, the sun feels hot on the side of my face, seagulls swoop and shriek across the waves. 

I’m glad we missed the little land slip today. I realise a part of me is always on hold now, listening for the rumble, waiting for the avalanche to crush me - while I get used to the stings of small flying rocks.