Where the wild wind blows !

Where the wild wind blows: deep in the remote wash wilderness, and swept off my feet by a howling gale, i slithered down the grassy bank of the sea wall, halted only by a lonely dyke and a potato field. On into the murk, and the looming night I pulled out 2 mallard with a single retort from my trusty twelve bore. Floating on a tidal creek, the two prize specimens were just retrievable. Time to take the lonely walk back to my womb of civilisation, the lonely spectre of Kenzie Thorpe’s houseboat, moored way back on the saltings. Alone and free in this rugged and testing landscape, I was intoxicated by the grandeur of my very own boys adventure tale. In the vibrant and setting sun, awesome streams of wild geese skeins, orchestrated the evening sky, as the soft murmurings of pink feet geese introduced an eerie, rich silence. Life on the house boat , with its raw and rugged simplicity  created a state of intense mindfulness, aroused by deep and primitive survival instincts - a young man alone in a land where the wild wind blows.

 

 Jim Emerton

 

 

THE BOYS ADVENTURE TALE

When I was young there was so much fun, to be had in the woods by the lake, far from sad. Hunting high and low, for the fox, the deer and doe. My world was strange and insular, in mountains, forests and peninsula, as each pulse of freedom was born on the wings of adventure. At one with the outside world, every nuance unfurled in a time of make believe. What wonders to perceive, in the song thrush, finch and grebe. The inviting, perfect nest was a wonderfest, a lasting image of a youth well spent in the timeless memories of yesterday when I was young, in pure naïve innocence.

 

Jim Emerton

 

 

THE HOUSEBOAT

In the wild, remote sea washes she was moored, facing the salt laden winds, fresh with a tinge of iodine from the North Sea. It was a young mans dream to slip under the army blankets on the bunk and plan the next wildfowling foray into the saltings and the stalk edges. Silent contemplation and a soaring imagination were punctuated by the singular and rugged presence of The Wild Goose Man of the Wash. What wild adventures we pursued in icebound sunsets, in swirling winds borne of snowflakes that clung to beards and melted with the rush of warm air from nostrils. The tilly lamp flickered as hard case eccentrics exchanged colourful stories, fuelled by beans, soup and eggs rendered edible on a smoky paraffin stove. As the moon cast her melancholy light over the seascape, plaintive cries of curlew haunted the dank air, as grey seals surfaced and little terns, so graceful and magical dived into the icy waters below. The elements exhilarated, as the spirit soared, leaving traces of wonder in an old mans reflections.

 

 

Jim Emerton