Shingle Shock

 The inshore waters are broiling and frothing.  The longer view is masked in grey, at times little to distinguish between seas and skies, the horizon more melding than distinction.

Ash grey above, reflected in pearl grey waters with a tinge of green inshore.

The waves begin breaking more than 100m from landfall.  At any time there are five rows of surf rolling shoreward.  Windrush and rumble, air spoondrift sodden.

From Jenny's Well, where the grasses have been gathering sea foam blown from the rocks, I pick my way through the last of the low tide exposed nooks and crannies and rockpools.  On to the beach.

Before me stretches the long curve of the bay.  Those turbulent waters tumble on, reducing until it is but a final caress that crests the sands.  Once again I find myself the only beach walker absent a hound at foot; an outsider without the credentials for club membership.

As I doddle on I realise that all is not as it should be; the familiar has changed.  Usually I'll walk the wet sand, as the soft, deep piles of golden beach can become a tough trudge.

I find myself picking a way through increasingly deep shingle.  There are stretches where the beach is no more.  The sand has gone.

There have been some very high tides of late, crashing waves.  I ponder the possibility of the rushing surf bringing pebbles onwards, depositing them on the shore.  Or perhaps the receding waters have hauled the loose sand with them, exposing the hidden stones.  Maybe a bit of both.

Might have to ask a young environmental scientist or two for their thoughts on beach erosion.

I'd like to think Old Neptune may be kind enough, over time, to return our beach.

My return route takes me into the grounds of Cullen House, and on to Castle Hill.  Despite the bare canopy of the woods in winter, there is greenery I'd not noticed by the same path in the warmer months.  A carpeting of ivy, spreading to each and every tree; worn by the trunks as a winter coat, reaching for those grey skies above.

Across the viaducts, the tumbling surf below roaring from the depths.  The bay stretches out, a white coat rippling in the wind.

Then I see the beach, more brocolli brown and umber than the familiar golden.  Shingle and pebbles and stones where once there was soft, desert sand.  And strangely, after the high tides, no piled up wrack.  No weed at all.  It must be partying in the depths, with all that sand.

Slated for Greater Things

 It was never going to be a smooth journey, this late in life move to another location.  We know from experience that older properties do not come maintenance free.

Some months ago, after one of those storms that have naming rights, arrival in the north east was welcomed by a slate lying in the parking space.  A quick check on the neighbouring roof left no option but a glance, with some trepidation, at our own.  And there was the gap, under the ridge tile.  A weighty beast, still with attached concrete.

Find a local roofer.  Easier said then done as it turned out.  Just as they are down Drumclog way, they're all busy, in demand.  Little time for what sounds like a tiny job; one slate down.

The hard bit was getting attention, getting commitment, a promise to call out when next in the village.

Eventually we got expert eyes on our roof.  And this week Kevin and James get down to some real work.  Replacing one slate is the trivial bit.

It seems that years of papering over the cracks has caught up with the property.  Water is going to places it's not supposed to reach.  Thus far there is virtually no internal evidence.  There was a time we had suspected a plumbing issue.  Now we know, water from above to below, without touching the internal walls.  That however is down to the thickness of the stonework.  What might be happening underneath, beneath the concrete floors, is best not discovered.  Not yet.  Let's stop it happening.

Cracks on the chimney stacks, slates held down by silicon, roughcast that is not adhering to the gable.  I have every confidence that Kevin and James will ensure that the years ahead do not become troubled with a need for internal works.  Their external expertise will see us wind and water tight, able to relax.

It has been a stressful few months, just finding this father and son team, and getting to the stage where initial inspections lead to time in the diary for essential reparations.  In some respects we're at the nervous stage, wondering what will be exposed when outer layers are chipped away.  This week it's chimneys and slates.

They're already suggesting that the roughcast could be replaced by pointing the stonework, a common finish hereabouts, as an alternative to new roughcast.  Much will depend on what they find when the walls are laid bare.

Still, it has to be sorted, and done now.  All thoughts of bathroom changes will have to be put on hold, the budget gone on unexpected roof repairs.  It wasn't long ago we read a clean Home Report.  That'll be the sort of document riddled with caveats.  As Kevin tells me, what looks nice from the street, even if we are told that binoculars may have been used, is a different matter altogether when you get the ladders out and have a proper look.  Up close, scratching the surfaces.

Welsh slate and local sandstone, the law of sod says supplies may not be easy.  I'm sure Kevin will let me know soon.

And then, before too long, it will be time to arrange another Home Report.  Best get the builders in first, knowing that papering over the cracks is simply cheating someone else.  Not on my conscience.  Not at this stage in life.  Finding the experts, that's the hard bit.  Wonder if Kevin and James fancy a trip south?