One thing I love about the UK is the charming names given to quaint villages and towns: John O'Groats, Burton-on-Water, Camber Sands. It's practically impossible to come across one and not start thinking in Byronic poetry.
And so it was, that on a midweek holiday, I found myself at the seaside of Camber Sands.
Together with my film location scouting party, Kasey and Andy
Amidst the tawny dunes and rippling reeds.
Overlooking yonder sea.
And sky.
And sea.
Okay - quasi-Byronic captions must end there. But I'm reading The Bell Jar right now and this shell so reminded me of the one Plath described as a "thumb joint" found on the dark beach of her own brooding ocean.
Interlude: The kitsch of Space City to lighten an otherwise contemplative afternoon.
Go ask Alice (how to get to Central London via a stationary bus).
Our cabbie friend.
As the skies darken - what will they find?
Kasey in a playpen of pebbles looking for her own earthen treasure.
A cloud swells with imminent rain.
Me, just a few hours before I was knocked over with severe case of non-swine flu. In retrospect, the pallid look of my face is quite foretelling.
Languor and all, it was, nonetheless, beautiful.
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