Hey ... I've opened the attic/office window .. it must be, er, what did we used to call it ... spring ...... something like that. And it is now something like that. But .... off we go ... I'm sure many of you in readerland remember this magnificent edifice .... It is now long gone of course. Time and tide whisked it away. It is the wonderful "Beach Cafe" at Cley... "real" name " Arkwright's Cafe." From about the age of 16 or so, I've been going to the N. Norfolk coast on holiday almost every year. In the beginning it was with my parents, and that evolved into my parents + my family, and then just my lot. Things were slightly gloomificated by my father, who refused to be seen with me in public for many years ( long hair.) We've sometimes turned it into a two-county affair by trooping down to Suffolk for the 2nd week. Woo ! I can well remember my v. first Cley visit.... my dad dropped me off... and drove off sharpish.... I've told you about him ..... and I wandered around in the searing heat and saw my first Avocets from the big mound in front of the then minuscule hut. !! Crumbs. At that time all I had was a pair of ex-navy (?) 5-ton bins but they worked. They were so old, you had to focus the right and left sides separately. They were the days. Proper bloody birding. [ hey ...with the attic window open I can hear a Bullfinch calling sadly and descendingly outside. ... ] That day I didn't go to the Beach Cafe ...but I did walk past it. I don't think I ever entered an actual cafe until I was about 19. Or maybe more. But I've been lots of times since, though I can't remember it being as posh as that postcard shows it to be. It was always good in there ... you get knackered and scorched and boiled walking round the reserve under the Saharan sun .... or else you get blown to shreds by the searing wind and covered in sand and foam ( slipped in a Donovan song there) and then you step eagerly into the cafe and ... yes, it's either boiling hot ( good weather) or rattling like the sails of an ocean clipper ... smart. I especially remember the big bookcase full of the sort of books that even the junk shops can't sell. Ancient crap novels about Lord Haughty or Sir Kingly Houghton-Hough, pronounced "Hoon" or old religious tracts, or what my mum called "spicy books" with garish drawings of loose women on the front. It all went downhill once the huge shingle bank which kept the sea out got breached and the council could no longer afford to keep patching it up. Eventually the big tides just shoved the whole thing over, smashed it to bits and dragged it out into the North Sea. .. this is the way the world ends ... not with a bang, but a whimper. That picture is good though ! So ... no doubt here'll be more about my Norfolk experiences ..... but now, it's music time .... Vetusta Morla .. " Profetas de la mañana " .... Of course, you'll be wanting to sing along ...here's the "words video " Hacia donde caminan los besos inciertos
cuando resbala la madrugada. Peinamos Gran Vía buscando huesos y luces verdes que nunca se apagan. Alumbran las tragaperras profetas de la mañana. Cuando nadie cierra por dentro y el sol hace de bisagra comparto tu misma noria, la giro si no me paras. En la Roma o en Palermo en Gracia o la Candelaria se acuesta la misma historia soñando con ser soñada. Estiramos la prórroga de este partido temiendo que el sol rasgue sus legañas. Cruzamos los túneles sin aliento cuidando del otro con la mirada. Camiones de la limpieza auroras en al batalla. Que tiemblen los ministerios que ardan las embajadas me subo a tu misma noria, la giro si no te enfadas. En la Roma o en Palermo en Gracia o la Candelaria se acuesta la misma historia soñando con ser soñada. Cuando nadie cierra por dentro y el sol hace de bisagra comparto tu misma noria la giro si no me paras. En la roma o en San Telmo en Gracia o en Malasaña se acuesta la misma historia soñando con ser soñada.
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AuthorThat's the author up there ... I was young and sprightly then. Archives
October 2022
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