58 Northgate, Cottingham, 30th July 1984
Out of the house before breakfast on a glorious bright and fresh morning – off to Bempton and Flamborough.
Bempton – a much larger village than expected. Parked the Morris Minor between a hedge and a golden field of barley. Clear blue sky high up and open; the sea far below and beyond to the horizon. Skylarks singing. The smell of eggs and bacon frying on single burner Gaz stove.
Walked down to the cliffs past herby, butterfly-rich banks, alive with birdsong. A corn bunting on a hawthorn – the first I have seen. The cliffs: a towering fractured white wall (330 feet here rising to 400 at Flamborough) above a calm blue-green sea patterned by a rippling of wind and speckled with the black and white of seabirds. Birds on precarious of ledges and hiding in the smallest of crannies – gulls, auks and gannets – a great clamour of kittiwakes and herring gulls and black headed gulls. Fulmar’s soaring by on stiff wings; puffins skimming along on rapid wing beats.
On to Flamborough North Landing, clouds rolling over. A rugged bay with cliffs, caves, stacks, arches and rock pools of clear water – a smuggler’s cove imagined. Walking planks to board a sturdy traditional flat-bottomed, high-bowed, cobble for a trip under the majestic cliffs – bouncing on the waves in showers of spray. Deep green shags against the chalk; guillemots and razor bills dashing to and fro over the water, as if in aerial combat. On shore, a flurry of activity as the lifeboat is launched on a practice drill.