Bank Holiday Weekend

On this Sunday morning sidewalk

Well I woke up Sunday morning

with no way to hold my head,

it didn't hurt.

And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,

so I had one more for dessert.

Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes and found my cleanest dirty shirt.

And I shaved my face and combed my hair and

stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

As if a Rhodes Scholar would get himself in such a state?  But then Kris Kristofferson is human, I guess, and we all have our off days.

On this particular Bank Holiday weekend, we had a rotten Saturday, with storm Lilian thrashing the trees and splashing the puddles, so to wake up to sunshine was something of a boon..... 

On a whim, I set out to walk from home in Snettisham to Sunny Hunny, as Hunstanton is known to some, to treat myself to a cure of cockles.

It is a breezy, beautiful morning, and my head clears as I traverse Wild Ken Hill's drying marsh, a kestrel hovering over there, the last of the daisies at my feet.

The Norfolk reeds do their flower dance by the waterside, 

And though most of the teasels are dry now, just a few have the remains of their delicate mauve petals for the bees to suck,

There's hardly anyone around on the inner sea bank, but those there are are friendly, and a smile goes a long long way these days.....

With the nesting season over, and the marsh almost dry, there are few birds around, but some geese watch me warily from the scrape, an egret sweeps in to fish and a black-headed gull eyes me suspiciously from overhead,

This was the path I walked almost every day before Amanda died.  Five miles to her bedside.   I haven't been along here since - seven long months of emptiness - but now, in the sunshine, I traipse along, breathing what air I must - such a shame she isn't here....

This was the summer of ragwort, but even this hardy perennial is dying now, its seed heads blustering in the wind.

At Heacham South Beach I join the crowds - well there are a few dog walkers and some early families calling out to their kids: "Edward!  Charlotte!" the names lost in the waves.....

And then I reach the concrete sidewalk that leads to Hunstanton.  People come and go, some run, some on bikes, many with dogs.  It's still early and there will be those on their second beer for breakfast, or combing their hair or stumbling down the stairs to meet the day.

Ringed Plovers on the beach flock away as Julie (I think that's what her mother called her) approaches, but no harm is done.  It's just another Sunday morning in the sunshine,

And Mr Whippy beckons as the shorts begin to show, but I am bound for the seafood stall, where my heart will be warmed by a portion of cockles. 

On this Sunday morning sidewalk,

wishing, lord, that I was stoned.

'Cause there's something in a Sunday,

makes a body feel alone.

And there's nothing short of dying,

half as lonesome as the sound,

on the sleeping city sidewalks,

Sunday morning coming down.

Kris Kristofferson