The language of stone

Today the world is ironed flat like a tea towel – a grey rather frayed tea towel printed with a monochrome pattern of bare trees, square houses, smokeless chimneys and blank windows. It hung there till I couldn’t stand it any longer. I went out to see if the world had ended.

On the coast road the sky was creased and crumpled but still grey. The sea was grey too except for a straight line of silver surf marking the edge of the Chesil bank. This line speared into the fog and led me to Hive Beach, Burton Bradstock.

Others had also been drawn here on the last day of the extended Christmas break. The shingle was churned with their meanderings and the tide was low. Calm weather had left no visible strandline apart from a scattered path of larger stones and some black dry bladder wrack high on the beach – a legacy from the last storm.

Stone ruled here – from coarse sandy gravel to the towering sandstone cliffs, layered and crumbling. Large stones on the beach bore the marks of partially hidden fossils – belemnites, ammonites and ancient shells. Lucky stones had holes in. Smooth oval pebbles were marked with thin white lines – a language which spoke of the movement of the sea, the passing of millennia, the shape and transience of life and the enduring nature of stone.

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