Just one day in February.

 On Friday we drove up the M6 to the old house in West End Morecambe and popped the heating on to warm it up.

...then  switched on the electric blanket to air the bed...

...and off to Arnside in the wind with big skies and rainbows over the Bay.

A train goes off to Whitehaven again.

It looks like a toy train as it trundles over the bridge on it's way up the west coast of Cumbria.

We sit and stare and promise...we'll do that trip this year.

 

...my mum loved seagulls...her favourite book was " Jonathan Livingston Seagull"...

Rosie bought it for her.

...we used to watch them from the old caravan at Ballyferris...fighting the winds and soaring over the wild seas.

...we were just in time to catch the "bore" as it powered it's way up the Kent ...roaring like a tractor...

...sudden downpours...

...caused many rainbows...I love a rainbow...it tells me " All will be well"...

(Julian of Norwich...thankyou..)

...then back to the old house and fish and chips with the blessed son...who now lives on The Bay.

A big fire in the grate and rugs around the knees and we talk of this and that ...

and are thankful.

A Poem for Thursday....

I was asked by @neviepiecakes aka Natasha Collins...lovely daughter..if I would post some pics for seven days from the different series that I've taken on camera. Thankyou Natasha.
This photo is one of three from a travel series. It now belongs to a great friend. I'm sure that there are references in this pic from wonderful international photographers...and so I give them thanks for their blogs and hope that I may have learnt from them and their skills.

I often think poetry when I take pics...and this little poem is very apt for the feelings often there when on a long journey...and you are really nowhere!

To Travel

To travel is to be nowhere.

You’re not here

And you’re not there.

So,

If you get the wrong train to somewhere,

Or you get off at

The wrong station for somewhere,

Does that mean

That you have completely disappeared?

And when the train gets to somewhere

Will they find that you are nowhere.

And how will you get back from there?

I'll post the other two in the series for you. 

 The start of the journey

All change at Euston

A Poem for Thursday...."The End of the Line"

With so much relayed over the media and the papers full of the sad stories of flooded homes and broken journeys...I'm putting up this post as a memory of another sea...another train journey...another ending...though for how long none of us can be sure any longer.

The End Of The Line

Let's go live at the end of the line
Where breakers fall over rolling stones.
We'll ride the train that we rode when young,
Watch how the steam mists our view of the sea
As it hisses and cools on the iron, on the brass.
And the cry of the gulls as they dive, as they soar
Will welcome us back
Will welcome us back.

Let's board the train that we rode long ago.
Where the end of the line will have water and sand.
We'll be welcomed again by the mewing of gulls
By the smell of spun sugar and hot lardy chips.
And there, will be space enough for our thoughts
With salt winds to blow away stale urban fog.
To welcome us back
To welcome us back.

They're saying the crust is beginning to crack.
That the cold winds of change are blowing our way.
Yet, when I take  the journey again to the end
Of the line, where the seagulls are soaring above,
To the edge of the tide, to the line in the sand...
The memory of all things, of all being well
Embraces me back
Embraces me back.

A Poem for Thursday.

The End of the Line

Let’s go and live at the end of the line.
Where breakers fall over rolling stones.
We’ll board the train that we rode when young,
Watch how the steam mists our view of the sea
As it hisses and cools on the iron and the brass.
And the cry of the gulls as they dive, as they soar
Will welcome us back
Will welcome us back.

Let’s board the train that we rode long ago,
Where the end of the line will have water and sand.
We’ll be welcomed again by the crying of gulls
The smell of spun sugar and hot lardy chips.
There, will be space enough for our thoughts
And salt winds that blow away stale urban fog.
To welcome us back,
To welcome us back.

They say that the crust is beginning to crack.
That the cold winds of change are blowing our way.
Yet when I take the journey again to the end
Of the line, where the seagulls are soaring above
To the edge of the tide, to the line in the sand.
The memory of all of things, of all being well
Embraces me back
Embraces me back.

 
This one has been linked to the gooseberry garden random poems week 17 ..."nostalgia"