Violetta
New member
I love it.
It is the stuff of the saltmarsh – ever changing, ever beautiful, ever fascinating – one of the most diverse ecologies on earth….a tapestry of exotic, colourful and highly specialised flora; home to myriads of beasts and butterflies; endlessly patrolled by splendid raptors – kestrels, harriers, short eared owls, barn owls…and constantly serenaded by skylarks – the timeless music of the marshland.
It forms graceful, sinuous, sweeping shoreline curves to ease and delight the eye
It creates intricate Lilliputian land and seascapes. Miniature cliffs, lakes, rapids, falls, deltas…..Every coastal formation you ever learned about in school geography is laid before your eyes.
It reflects every shift and shading of light and colour in the wide eastern sky
It feeds a myriad of birds – waterfowl, wildfowl, geese, waders – coming and going with the cycles of climate, seasons and weather
It holds our anchors fast so that we may sleep well at night untroubled by thoughts of fees and dues and men in peaked caps
It provides a gentle landing for beginners that get a little flustered and teaches them kindly before they have to meet the granite hard sandbanks further out to sea.
It cradles the weary timbers of old wooden boats – nurturing them, safe and moist, through the storms of winter.
It slows us down. It makes us pay attention. It compels us to a discipline outside ourselves. It enforces upon us the time to be. To enjoy the moment and the people around us. To converse, listen, tell stories, ask, help, advise, respond, contemplate, share. To potter. To do the caring, careful, time-consuming things. To touch up the brightwork. To taper an eye splice. To clean the brass. To make a grommet. How good it is NOT to be able to jump in the boat and go at any time we want. There is no more blessed state of being than waiting for the tide.
And, best of all, it is gloriously, hopelessly, irredeemably unglamorous. There is nothing, simply nothing, to touch a fine big dollop of black Essex mud for deterring the status-conscious, the corporate-minded, the boy racer, the dedicated follower of fashion. Sailing here is for everyone – the vicar, the plumber’s apprentice, the fish and chip van man, the postie – everyone, that is, who loves boats and being on the water. The creeks are still full of boats that clearly belong to people who can't possibly afford a boat, but are going to have one anyway.
As for those who are looking for glamour, status, one-upmanship, sparkling nightlife, business networks, flaunted wealth, a place to see and be seen – happily, the mud ensures that they must look elsewhere, for the mud is the consummate equaliser.
Mud. How I love it……….
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It is the stuff of the saltmarsh – ever changing, ever beautiful, ever fascinating – one of the most diverse ecologies on earth….a tapestry of exotic, colourful and highly specialised flora; home to myriads of beasts and butterflies; endlessly patrolled by splendid raptors – kestrels, harriers, short eared owls, barn owls…and constantly serenaded by skylarks – the timeless music of the marshland.
It forms graceful, sinuous, sweeping shoreline curves to ease and delight the eye
It creates intricate Lilliputian land and seascapes. Miniature cliffs, lakes, rapids, falls, deltas…..Every coastal formation you ever learned about in school geography is laid before your eyes.
It reflects every shift and shading of light and colour in the wide eastern sky
It feeds a myriad of birds – waterfowl, wildfowl, geese, waders – coming and going with the cycles of climate, seasons and weather
It holds our anchors fast so that we may sleep well at night untroubled by thoughts of fees and dues and men in peaked caps
It provides a gentle landing for beginners that get a little flustered and teaches them kindly before they have to meet the granite hard sandbanks further out to sea.
It cradles the weary timbers of old wooden boats – nurturing them, safe and moist, through the storms of winter.
It slows us down. It makes us pay attention. It compels us to a discipline outside ourselves. It enforces upon us the time to be. To enjoy the moment and the people around us. To converse, listen, tell stories, ask, help, advise, respond, contemplate, share. To potter. To do the caring, careful, time-consuming things. To touch up the brightwork. To taper an eye splice. To clean the brass. To make a grommet. How good it is NOT to be able to jump in the boat and go at any time we want. There is no more blessed state of being than waiting for the tide.
And, best of all, it is gloriously, hopelessly, irredeemably unglamorous. There is nothing, simply nothing, to touch a fine big dollop of black Essex mud for deterring the status-conscious, the corporate-minded, the boy racer, the dedicated follower of fashion. Sailing here is for everyone – the vicar, the plumber’s apprentice, the fish and chip van man, the postie – everyone, that is, who loves boats and being on the water. The creeks are still full of boats that clearly belong to people who can't possibly afford a boat, but are going to have one anyway.
As for those who are looking for glamour, status, one-upmanship, sparkling nightlife, business networks, flaunted wealth, a place to see and be seen – happily, the mud ensures that they must look elsewhere, for the mud is the consummate equaliser.
Mud. How I love it……….
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