A Season Of Epic Sights.

This summer is proving itself, really proving itself to be quite beautiful. Initially, I was saddened to be staying in England, however the past month or so has been full of sky gazing and wanderlust and good books and such. I finished reading Frankenstein a week ago whilst in Bournemouth, and I must say that I was far more impressed than I was after witnessing Danny Boyle's theatrical interpretation.Victor himself is such an odd creation, such an anxious tangle of human emotion I felt he deserved far more insight than the National's production delivered. I needed to warm to him, and found that easier through the book than the staged version. At the risk of sounding quite arrogant, the Olivier was too vast and full of empty space for me to engage, and Boyle relied on visual majestry over substance.
I am now reading Jack Kerouac's On The Road, and, aside from being vaguely infuriating is slowly giving me the urge to road trip around America. Which is ridiculous. Because, I'm seventeen with no money and besides it's not like how it was in the 50s and I know no one there and it's so big so maybe I should just go to France.
I digress. I was talking about stunning things this summer.

Whilst in Bournemouth with my family, I visited a beautiful beach named Dirdle Door. I recommend anyone who is up for touring British seasides to go. You emerge in rolling hills and moors, feverish with concern about the lack of sea, you have to park your car and walk through these hills, and down the face of a cliff with stairs hacked into the side. And then, all of a sudden, you'll find yourself looking down at the shore which is Dirdle Door. All turquoise and rustic and the seaweed giving the impression of gold. Dirdle comes from the word Thirl, which is of anglo saxon origin, and means hole or pierced opening. The attraction about Dirdle Door is that a door shaped opening has somehow occurred amidst a cliff. There's a picture of me looking awkward with it right behind me.

All this sky staring on beaches next to door shaped cliffs should make me overtly philosophical, but it doesn't. It just makes me happy, and breathless, and all of those jolly good victorian things we don't get much of nowadays due to disillusion.

I don't believe in luck, as I don't believe in God, but chance wonders of nature do cause amazement and a slight uplift in spirits as they result in a casting of the mind back to a rhyme you were told when you were very little. I'm glad of the laughing fox five paces from the sea and the two for joy.

I'll also have you know that I'm just as content at the coast as I am on an afternoon sojourn to the Docklands (not to be confused with the Wastelands). You see, you can pack yourself a picnic of nectarines and crumpets and rest in an alcove between penthouses (the most expensive in East London) and the Mills - whose decaying romanticism I have been devoted to for years.

It's a ridiculous hour. And I'm thrilling myself with these seasonal daydreams, which are actually existing, but it's time for me to rest now. It seems the summer doesn't happen at 5am.

xoxo