Sunday, 25 January 2015

On the Edge

Thirty Paintings in Thirty Days Challenge'
DAY 24

'The Edge' 
oil on board 8" x 8"

Mevagissey is a world away from buzzing London. 
Thank goodness...
It's the sort of place famous people go to in the knowledge that no one will recognise them. (No, not me, silly! I'm recognised everywhere I go! 'Ooh, look! Isn't that Jules from Juju & Bubba?')
It's tucked into a hidden-away corner of the south coast of Cornwall, has a quaint working, fishing harbour and an olde worlde village atmosphere.
Now, I don't want all of you booking up the place, either! Hear me? it's not THAT good. *crosses fingers*

We stayed in a little place literally perched on the cliff, just off Polkirt Hill. And when I say 'perched on a cliff' I mean RIGHT ON THE CLIFF EDGE!

After driving for a squillion hours and a few arguments about the co-pilot/navigator being totally useless - moi) we arrived in the pitch black, dead of night.
A gale was blowing, there was an angry roar from the sea (though we couldn't see it) and the sea spray was slithering it's grainy, salty fingers down the windowpanes.
There was even seaweed glued to the glass. *Nods head*

OH had this romantic idea that we'd have the bedroom overlooking the ocean and at night we'd open wide the windows and allow the sound of the gentle, rhythmic waves to lull us to sleep.
No such luck.
Yes, we did open the window on that first night but the noise of the crashing waves against the rocks was so deafening (and a little frightening) we closed it firmly praying that the cliff would still be there in the morning. 
So much for romance, eh?
The following morning, I drew back the curtains for my first glimpse of Mevagissey harbour. 
Nothing prepared us for the stunning view across the vast, blue ocean or the dizzying depths to the rocks below. Every window had a green haze on it and was speckled with stuff you'd expect to see on the beach so muggins here in flip flops and dressing gown cleaned the windows. I know what you're thinking.

We had the most wonderful time there - walking the cliff path, strolling down the hill after supper to a virtually empty harbour, re-charging the batteries and breathing in clean, ocean air.
I took more photos than David Bailey and this painting is based on one of those from the cliff walk.
Now I'm not good with heights, dancing on the table is quite enough height for me and usually means when I've duly embarrassed myself/family/onlookers enough, I have to ask for assistance to dismount said table due to feeling a tad light headed.(It's a medical condition, see.)
However, the views down from the crumbling cliff edge into the black, rocky abyss were worryingly mesmeric, lulling me into a false sense of security. I walked within a few feet of the edge then crawled on hands and knees for the last few inches.
It was only when I'd finished taking photos and stood up that I felt myself slowly leaning forward, drawn by the magnetic pull of the waves and looked to all intents and purposes to those watching, that I was going to topple over the edge.
Clearly I didn't.
But it was the sort of sensation little children experience when they are standing stock-still by the waters edge, they become spellbound by the pulsing waves rolling  in and out, in and out. Then suddenly, as a wave recedes they are pulled by an invisible force towards it and usually face plant themselves into the wet sand. I know, I've done it.

So I hope you all appreciate the extra mile I went, risking life and limb to bring you this?

Jules xx

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