2. Different in winter.
3. Different in summer. Fishing from high on the cliffs.
4. Autumn, it can get rough and even more beautiful.
5. Always something to photograph!
6. Robert with the man who used to build his boats.... had come to pay him a visit and talk about the old days.
7. The boats get tied up and secured firmly during the high tides.
8. Lovely names and colours.
9. Their pride...
10. Robert, my friend
11. The tear...
R.I.P ROBERT EMERSON.
Flamborough, on the stunning North- Yorkshire Heritage Coast, one of our fave haunts around here, just under two hours away it is a place that is special, the rugged white cliffs, its inlets and coves, the clear blue water, the sounds and smells now so familiar, we need our regular dose of it. WE ALWAYS find something new to photograph, the sea is ever-changing as is the sky and the light, the seasons.
You can go to Flamborough Head with the light house, but we love Smuggler’s Cove… You arrive through the small village, the road opens up, the gulls welcome you, there’s a big parking, and that’s where his van stood, always the first thing you saw, winter summer, always a fire going in a drum, the back doors open, people…
I took many portraits of this beautiful man, gave him copies the next time for which he was always grateful, but being a true
This is about Robert, my friend, who is no more; I just heard he died last month.
All his life, except for the war, he lived in Flamborough, born into a proud family of fishermen; he was also a life long volunteer of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution.
He eyes shone when he told me that all the boats belonging to him and his family had lovely names like ‘Madeleine Isabella’ and their signature is a white rose, the
He still went out to inspect his crab pots every early morning, well in his eighties, the women cleaned, prepared and dressed them, most for the fishmongers on markets, the rest for the back of his van, parked in his place at Smuggler’s Cove, where he sold them, that’s how we met.
I love fresh crabs and he loved people…
If you're lucky, you encounter some people in your life that are special, add something, who leave a lasting impression even if you met them only occasionally enrich you forever, Robert was such a man.
I remember the times we sat together, chatting and laughing, wonderful. He loved holding my hands in his huge, rough, calloused hands.
When he heard I was from
I grew up hearing about it; I grew up amongst the many graves in
It was a winter’s day, bitingly cold, I’ll never know if the tear on his cheek was the icy wind or …
His kind face etched by the tearing wind and salt and sun and conditions of the
Time is precious, best use it for good, have a lovely day and thanx for your time, Magda, (*_*)
WHY DO YOU STILL MARCH OLD MAN,
WITH MEDALS ON YOUR CHEST?
WHY DO YOU STILL GRIEVE OLD MAN,
FOR THOSE FRIENDS YOU LAID TO REST?
WHY DO YOUR EYES STILL GLEAM OLD MAN.
WHEN YOU HEAR BUGLES BLOW?
TELL ME WHY YOU CRY OLD MAN,
ABOUT THOSE DAYS SO LONG AGO?
I'LL TELL YOU WHY I MARCH YOUNG MAN, WITH MEDALS ON MY CHEST.
I'LL TELL YOU WHY I GRIEVE YOUNG MAN, FOR THOSE I LAID TO REST.
THROUGH MISTY FIELDS OF GOSSAMER SILK
COME VISIONS OF DISTANT TIMES.
WHEN BOYS OF TENDER AGE LOST LIVES
AND ALL THEIR MOTHERS PINED.
WE BURIED THEM IN A BLANKET SHROUD,
THEIR YOUNG FLESH, SCORCHED AND BLACKENED.
A COMMUNAL GRAVE, NEWLY GOUGED,
IN BLOODSTAINED GOURSE AND BRACKEN.
AND YOU ASK ME WHY I MARCH YOUNG MAN?
I MARCH TO REMIND YOU ALL.
THAT FOR THOSE APPLEBLOSSOM YOUTHS, YOU'D NEVER HAVE KNOWN FREEDOM AT ALL.
This poem is published with the kind permission of Brian Hutson.