The stiff breeze is pushing the clouds across the sky and a patchwork of light and shade appears on the water in the harbour. In the Low Lights, cars are parked facing the high tide that kisses the tiny yellow beach and the grey boulders that hold it back. The water is swollen and small waves are churning up the brown waters, mixing the salt and the fresh before casting it upon the shore. Beyond the harbour walls the sea is chopped with white caps and ploughed with deep furrows. White spume is thrown over the north wall from breakers that are crashing against it. A ship is passing by the harbour mouth, heading up the coast to another port, heavy with its unknown cargo.
Near the shoreline, on the path between the car park and the sea wall, a group of crows, a parliament, is waiting expectantly, watching the drivers and passengers, waiting for them to finish their lunch and throw out the scraps that are left. Above them the gulls are crying to each other, mostly juveniles in their mottled brown and white coats, ever watchful and hoping to snatch whatever morsel is available. Any movement sends a ripple of excitement though the flocks with caws and screeches and the furious flapping of wings.
Cyclists in Lycra, runners in fluorescent vests and couples in matching rainproof jackets are passing by in front of the cars making their way to Tynemouth and beyond. On the beach a pair of tyres has been washed up, fallen from some fishing boat but now sitting like small wells, filling and emptying with water as the waves wash over them. A clump of blue nylon rope lies tangled with black seaweed, a dead sea-monster giving the few children that are on the sand something of interest to poke and prod at. An old man in a faded red jacket and a grey woollen hat holds a young girl’s hand as they walk into the wind and they are laughing at a shared story.
Out on the water there are not many boats from the yacht club on the south shore, it’s too windy today and the water is too swollen but two or three persist. The tide is on the turn and the water is beginning to suck back away from the beach, exposing the middens a few hundred metres away on the north side of the river, their treacherous black tops just breaking through the white surf. The buoys nod to each other with the swell and a pigeon lands on the sign which tells that the water is unsuitable for bathing. A steady but unpromising trickle of customers is making their way to the ice-cream van.
Its chilly outside, the breeze is keeping the temperature down but the sun is streaming through the screen and inside the car it is getting warmer. Her lunch is finished, she turns and her face lights up with a contented smile. She is shuffling her back into the chair, closing her eyes and in an instant she will fall into a gentle sleep.
Thoughts from a Guerrilla Worker 