On Nature: Unexpected Ramblings on the British Countryside. Литагент HarperCollins USD

me, and I am alone in a present-tense romance with the stuff. Kentish countryside seems somehow unlike other English countryside. It’s more like the green of France. It’s hard to pin down why. It’s like the fairytale French countryside of summer holidays, of childhood and youth.

      An hour later the green gives way to luminous blue, and then it’s my stop. Stepping back onto familiar ground, walking down the terraced hill to the sea, though the sea here is not quite yet the sea: this seaside is ambiguous, it’s almost the shoreline of the Thames still, it’s marine and estuarine at the same time. The north bank of Essex is just visible twenty miles away on the far horizon. You are always aware that this is the end of the Thames, and by association the Smoke. Looking inland, you see all the electricity pylons marching off to a smokestacked horizon. The train rumbles past along the same vector of communication and joined-upness, all the way back to the great scabby tit of mother London this Kentish suckling depends upon. It feels like London’s last outpost, my bolthole, at this place where the leviathan finally loses out to the vastness of the sea, the vastness of the marine sky, the vasty blue world beyond.

      Walking along the shoreline in the pearly evening light, the room above the tennis courts full of stoner kids rehearsing their floydy tunes, wah-wah guitars and jazzy drums floating out of the window which is open to the sea and the balmy summer evening breeze, the best rehearsal room in the world . . . past the weatherboarded white pub stuck out on its own on the beach, with old white-haired ponytailed geezers and Floyd proper on the jukebox – there’s just something about seaside towns and stoners, I guess . . .

      An old dear on a fold-out beach chair painting the sea view; all the workaday problems you circle round and round, that blinker you and bind you to your worries and routines, are slowly shed, out here before the wide open sky, the magnificent distance of the far horizon . . .

      I didn’t mind that I’d followed the warm, beckoning smell of frying cod batter down the winding alleys, but missed the best chippy by a whisker; I didn’t mind that the other chippy’s gear was sloppy and not up to scratch; I didn’t even mind that Whitstable had been invaded by swarms of little bugs that got into the hairs on my arms and up my nose every few seconds: here I was, back in my coastal Kentish paradise.

      Beyond the ramshackle fishermen’s cottages, half a million quid in their battered, black-tarred weatherboard, every Londoner’s wank fantasy of a seaside escape, is the real working harbour, where I always end up having a sit and a stare: an ugly corrugated iron silo, sheds, bright yellow diggers piling into huge mounds of sand and gravel waiting to be shipped off somewhere else. It is here, sitting in my own secret quiet spot on the dock, staring at these piles of aggregates, that my soul finally finds its rest, poised between a man’s need for bloke stuff and the memories of the child and the moody adolescent who is father to the man; this industrial dock is the essence of my early memories, growing up as I did in a dirty northern port, round the corner from corrugated sheds and piles of aggregates like these, which I would wander round as a teenager, spending long, lonely walks searching for myself, whoever that is . . .

      The white seagulls sitting on the mounds of gravel have given me back the place I grew up in; though where I grew up is 400 miles away, whipped by the cold winds of the North Sea, it is the same place: the sun sets behind the same bend in the bay, above the same mysterious twinkling pinprick lights; you still yearn to know what life is producing those pinprick lights; the atmosphere of seascape and shoreline haunts you, just the same.

      The navy blue sea tractor with the wheels bigger and wider than me reverses, with its bright orange lifeboat on the trailer, the whole ensemble the basic block colours of a lifesize Playmobil toy; its amber light flashes round and round, illuminating specks of spitting rain, and I wander on into the violet hour, alone with my thoughts and the vast sky, the pinpricks of Essex towns twinkling along the far horizon, my thoughts turning to hot chocolate and the candlelit cosiness of the hut.

      You are always woken up by the early morning light and the ping of golf balls from the course behind the hut, the retirees rising early and filling up their days with the calmer pleasures . . . the first half hour waking up follows a familiar ritual: set a coffee pot up on the stove, hook the doors open, fold out a beach chair and survey the sea and sky. The strange thing about this seascape is it looks equally fascinating in good or bad weather, and all the weather in between. It is often in between, never quite making its mind up, and I can lose whole days watching the changes of the sky and sea, the many mood swings of this temperamental estuary god.

      I say good morning to my lesbian neighbours. Half of them are lesbians on my stretch; the seaside is a site for sexual liberty, just as it always was. It was also the site of the first flush of romance between me and the missus – this little bit of coast is part of us and our story, it played the role of midwife in our early romance. She brought me to a similar hut a few doors down on date number three; there were storms all weekend, and you couldn’t go outside without getting drenched – we didn’t, all weekend, and it was heaven . . . when I told this story to my granny she chuckled with a cheeky glint in her eye and said, ‘Aah, memories! Eh, son?’

      When we bought this hut a few months later it was the grand romantic gesture – a second home before we even lived together in a first. I bought my half when I was flush, over-reaching myself as one always does in those circumstances, and now all the cash is spent and I can’t pay my rent on the poky boxroom in London any longer, it’s still the grand romantic gesture, in another kind of way: I dream of eking out the rest of the long lean summer in this hut, living on Weetabix and digestives, with five quid fish’n’chips as my treat; I daydream of dangling a line off the dock wall at high tide and waiting for a crab, taking him home in my bucket, cooking him on the Campingaz stove, cracking him open and eating him – one of the sea’s great bounteous luxuries for nowt; in this way beach-hut life transforms poverty into something glorious; the hut was the glory of my flush, flashy times, and now it’s the glory of my poverty.

      I have no electricity: the emails remain unread, the mobile phone stays off. Candlelight is fine. The sea is as good a bath as any. I like to imagine I am thick in the heart of this solitude, like Thoreau thick in the heart of his forest, far from the entrapments of modern society, but this of course is not true – I am a ten-minute walk from the Co-op, which shuts at ten, which I can stroll up to for fresh supplies of millionaire shortbread or raspberry pop. I am five minutes from the Old Neptune pub, where I can sup a Guinness watching some gnarly old Kentish blues band. Kate comes at the weekend, and brings kindness and food. But still, amongst these comforts that keep me joined up to the world, the effect is the same: I am alone, with the space to find a kind of peace for myself, which is also where the words come.

      I lived a solitary seaside existence marked by poverty once before, when I was young, and lost, and didn’t know what to do; this time round is markedly different in one important respect: the wind howls, the walls creak like they might cave in, the candlelight flickers, I write all this down, and I am happy. I thank my lucky stars for this seaside retreat – the lucky stars that line up in the vast, sprawling estuarine sky and stand guard above my tiny weather-beaten hut.

      On the Road to

       Damascus

      Bill Drummond

      It is normal for young folk to have infatuations with people of the opposite sex, or maybe with their own sex. These infatuations can be with real flesh-and-blood people they see in their day-to-day life, or with a film or pop star. You know this, we all know this.

      But I seem to have missed out on these sorts of infatuations. Not that my sex drive has ever been less than driven, you understand, and I am as boringly heterosexual as you can get, it’s just I’ve never been tormented with infatuations in a boy–girl sort of way. But infatuations are still something that from time to time inflame my urges and desires. In a non-sexual way, you understand, but infatuations all the same. When I was much younger it maybe was a certain species of fish, say the Perch or Brown Trout, or maybe a bird – my infatuation with the Black Cap lasted at least a decade. But I’ve only ever had one infatuation with a variety of fruit. And this infatuation lasted almost twenty years. It is only comparatively recently that