The Shifting Sands Of Time.

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Dusak
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The Shifting Sands Of Time.

Post by Dusak »

The Shifting Sands Of Time.


This large expanse of sand and silt, created over millennia, always looking the same, yet always changing with the incoming and outgoing tides. When the moon says it is time for these murky waters to leave, to make their return journey towards the greater expanse of the sea, another tide rushes in. This time an aerial one, hundreds, no, thousands of white seagulls, shifting within a wave of movement as they cry out and screech, swooping to grab a wayward sand crab that had decided to scuttle over the sand just that bit longer in search of a tasty morsel before burrowing down into the safety of its sandy home or small fish trapped in the pools of water left behind by the retreating tide.

These sands, a creation of natures boundless energies, so plentiful of life, yet the taker of life as well. The sands are constantly on the move, creating large swaths of quick sinking areas of clinging, sucking, hidden death-traps for the unwary traveller that decides to cross. It matters not to these unforgiving sands if it is a King or commoner, all become easy pray, to end their days beneath the sand.

Local history says that not only people sank to their deaths. All manor of animals, carts laden with wares travelling with a nervous feeling of chance that they would be successful on reaching the other side of the estuary some three miles away to gain extra coin by selling their goods in a better populated market town. But the sands took most, until eventually most saw sense and took the longer route around the bay.

My eyes looked at the three rotting stumps that were the only evidence that this coastal region had once had a magnificent pier that transported the people along and over these treacherous sands where upon reaching the end they could have a drink and something to eat as they marvelled at the view from the safety of this elevated perch. But the pier and walk way had been destroyed one night by a terrific and violent storm, long before my time, never to be rebuilt. I would of loved to have been able to do that walk, in safety, as I fear these sands, these uncompromising takers of innocent lives.

Today its a lot different. The sands are now attended by sand guides, professional locals that know these sands well, able to read the safe routes to transport the travellers, tourists, bird watchers and shell gatherers. Or those that just feel the need for a long leisurely stroll to get to the other side, then return by the little coastal road train which is a popular mode of transport with the children.

When I was a child growing up here we had an outdoor swimming pool, fed by the seas waters. I can still remember the rich salty tang to the air, the pesky seagulls swooping down to steal the food from peoples fingers. But like a lot of things, it fell into disrepair and eventually closed to become a well photographed white elephant as my father used to call it.

It was one of these sand guides that I was to meet, fall madly in love with and marry. His name is Peter.

At the time of our meeting I had been nineteen and had never been kissed. My life then had been controlled by my father. I had started working in a small confectionery shop, selling bread, home made cakes and an assortment of sweets and chocolate. The placement was enjoyable for me as it got me out of the stifling environment of home. But my father used to escort me to work and was always there to accompany me home. He said it was to protect me from the bad people that roamed this earth, but personally I had never come across a bad person in my life. His death had come as a blessing in disguise for me, but my mother felt the loss each and every day.

Most of the summer days and a few winter ones I walk the two mile estuary path, elevated above the tide line and constructed of concrete and decorative tiles. Stone steps lead down to the sand when the tide is out, which is quite safe to walk on as long as you don't go out to far. This is a favourite stretch for dog walkers as their owners would throw a stick or ball, the dog excitedly splashing and chasing after it over the sands. Along the walkway, every three hundred yards or so, there are ornate cast iron benches. Some, like the one I always rest at, are within a shelter. Each bench has a name plate on, dedicated to a loved one in remembrance. This shelter has two such benches, one bearing the name of my father, paid for by mother. Sadly, if the benefactor does not keep up the yearly maintenance payments for the bench, then the nameplate is soon removed to be replaced by someone else’s. But you can, if affordable to the individual concerned, pay a one off donation of £500 for the plaque to remain in place for ever. My Mother could not afford this, so has made me promise her that when she dies, I will pay not only to have her name placed with my fathers, but guarantee that they would stay together for ever.

One day I had been sitting on my fathers named bench when a handsome smiling stranger had said good morning to me and asked was it all right for him to join me on the bench as he had a nail in his shoe that needed removing. It had just seemed so natural to start talking to one another as if we had been friends for years. He introduced himself as Peter, he had lived locally all his life, although I had never seen him before this chance meeting, carried on the tradition of a sand eel fisher as his father had done and his father before him. He was also a sand guide, which he enjoyed immensely as he gained a lot of pleasure meeting new people and heard their story’s. He was also very knowledgeable concerning the shifting sands, knowledge that had been handed down through the generations. But he had been quick to state that never take your knowledge for granted as the sands can betray you at any given time. We met every day after that, our love for one another growing stronger each day. One day he had presented me with the most beautiful small gold butterfly suspended on a gold chain. Peter had told me that he had come across it while eel fishing some years ago. It had become entangled in some seaweed. He had had it looked at by a jeweller friend of his that had told him the hallmark stated that it was over a hundred years old. So Peter had kept it. Shortly after that we were married.

I'm waiting for him to come into sight now as I lean against the railings on this cool winters day. The familiar voices approaching catch my ears. Nurse Betty is with her elderly charges from the private nursing home, Cliff View. Old Walter in his motorised wheelchair, Elsie Welsie as she is affectionately referred to holding onto one edge of his chair for balance, still quite sprightly at seventy two to keep up with the chairs slow speed. Caroline, eighty one and in a permanent world of her own, then last but not least, Anne. Anne was the frailest of the four, eighty nine and needing the support of nurse Betty as well as her walking frame. As usual old Walter did a figure of eight in his chair and reversed into the shelter. And as is also usual, Anne lowered herself onto the bench besides him. Nurse Betty immediately took out her knitting once they were settled.

I always smile when I see old Walter. Even at eighty six, he still has that twinkle in his eye and cheeky grin. He is always constantly teasing Anne about doing a night time runner together and getting wed. Anne would always chastise him, chuckling at the same time, saying that he was too young for her and besides, she was still waiting for Mr right to come along. Anne had been born here, but had moved out of the area only to return fifty years later to take up residence at Cliff View rest home.

Suddenly a pair of warm, gentle hands cupped my face from behind. Peter whispered in my ear asking me was he late. I turned, first he cupped my cheek within one hand, then to gently lift my chin, tilting it ever so slightly to place a kiss on my lips. I told him he was early, but that didn't matter as we hadn't long to wait before we could move on.

We both stood watching the old folk, Walter just sat and stared out across the bay, Caroline was asleep, snoring loudly into Elsie Welsie's right ear while Anne slowly slumped sideways into old Walter. Walter called over to nurse Betty and mumbled something. She rose from her seat and leaned over Anne, loosening her cardigan which allowed the little gold butterfly on its gold chain to hang from her neck, swaying slowly side to side. Walter had patted Anne's knee in a show of genuine affection, saying that at long last she was with her Mr right. Anne's slouch had displayed the dedication on the bench which read ''dedicated to my wonderful husband, Peter, who lost his life to the shifting sands.'' Anne. 1963.

Peter took my hand in his and lead my down the old worn stone steps to begin our journey across the shifting sands of time.


Life is your's to do with as you wish- do not let other's try to control it for you. Count Dusak- 1345.
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