Walk with me (to the estuary) - a ghost story

Walk with me (to the estuary) 1

The first third of the story.... 2


A bolt is thrust aside and one half of the conservatory door swings back. The sound of a sharp kick announces the peeling back of the second. A bulk of a man steps through carrying a thick meshed bundle of sticks and logs, searching for a suitable spot to dump the damp load; his nose held aloft, at a distance, enduring the sickly-sweet aroma of the mildewed bark. His head bobs to and fro - almost rocking - until the wood is set down on a sheet of newspaper dragged into position by a foot. The dispatching of the load relieves his body, but his expression still retains the weary slump it entered with.3


The slump lingers as towers of books, interwoven with assortments of paper, newspaper cuttings and various unclassified sheaves are transformed into neat stacked piles. All accomplished largely ignorant of the semi-forgotten plants in outgrown pots, trailing spokes of dirt across the work surface. 4


It is then that his mind returns to the plan for the weekend and the potential sweet restorative powers of a few days by the coast. It has been quite some time since his last visit to the little village of Leat and its impressive shores. Manning almost smiles. He has missed the place.5


Possibly you know it? It is a south facing sandy beach next to the entrance of the Beaulieu River in Hampshire. It’s a landscape rich in character, with substantial stretches of open and unspoilt countryside that draw in a whole spectrum of characters: twitchers, ramblers, day walkers and some younger people out to make hay on its shores. With its great diversity of habitats, the area attracts significant wildlife populations. Popular pastimes are to bird watch over the North Solent Nature Reserve and Dark Water estuary, spot numerous butterflies attracted to the wildflower meadows, and stroll along the cliff top lined with Monterey and Corsican Pines.6


On the beach are various rocks that have been brought in for sea-defences, as ballast, from shipwrecks, or transported for building purposes. These include much Limestone, and some Purbeck Stone; one receiving unequalled attention for its ownership of an impressive dinosaur footprint.7


Erosion has taken its toll here. The shore is littered with the corpses of trees, fallen from their increasingly fragile grip on the sandy soil, only a few feet above. Tendrils of seeping rainwater and the gnawing effect of the wind have gradually removed the earth, leaving the roots exposed and the trees at the mercy of the encroaching elements. With this in mind, it is not beyond probability that a stay at Leat could be rewarded by the spectacle of a large pine taking a tumble towards the waves. 8


Undoubtedly, there are stretches of coastline possessing qualities unveiled for limited periods only, at particular times of the day, or when framed by seasonal weather. Leat is no exception: in the early hours of a wintry morning the landscape transforms into quite a gloomy affair, harsh and foreboding; and for the uninitiated, not at all what you would want from a day by the coast. The remnants of once thriving woodland are scattered along its sandy banks, the dead bodies of trees thrust into the greyness, and any living thing that roams amongst the decaying branches looks quite lost; as lost as a child. Under feeble, achromatic light, it has a dreadfully inauspicious prospect. Despite this, visitors are regulars on Leat’s shores at all parts of the day – each delighting in the area’s inescapable beauty.9


Manning returns to his garden and stops momentarily on the lawn, prospecting the promise of an early spring. Though the garden and verdure beyond have yet to become the busy hive of the next season, the lull is regularly and insistently punctured by the chiming of church bells, rushing in from the distance, streaming across the shiny pools of the water meadows and ringing against the roof. So reliable is their timekeeping that he is frequently without a watch here, preferring to let the chiming bells pass on the message.10


It is now almost eight o’clock and Manning stands stiffly, aligned with the church, cocking an ear with compass point precision in anticipation of the first toll. His innate sense of timing is once again uncannily accurate but it is not rewarded in the usual way. Instead of a tone honeyed and dulcet, his ears are greeted with something quite unfamiliar: a sonorous clang, rude and discordant. His brow ruffles, his lips hover on a few unspoken words. Then a second chime, as strident as the first: rumbling across the valley floor, striking stone and wall, resonating through the farm machines and rusting metal cages, thudding against the roof tiles, growling into the distance, dissipating in the pastures beyond.11


A nervous itch possesses his scalp. He scratches it. A befuddled smile expands across his face. His mind races wildly, considering that if a bell could literally be strangled then this is what it would sound like.12


Then another: a third thunders in, wrapping its ugly clamant chime around the valley’s audience. But this time its source is clear; it has emerged unmistakably from the bell tower.13


Manning thrusts his hands up towards his ears, ready to clasp them, but stops abruptly, withdrawing, convinced that his senses are confounded by something unreal: a phantom sound; an aural interloper arriving on a mischievous breeze; a blaring horn or siren displaced and blown in. By the time he has endured chimes four and five, they have alighted sharply on his nerves, insisting for attention, moving him to twitch his brow uncomfortably.14


His thoughts centre on a list of calendar dates, looking for significance, but despite his best efforts he is at a loss to explain why the bells should peel in such a manner. And, if the church’s response to such an event was typically cold then, of course, there could be little to celebrate.15


Anticipating a second round of discordant chimes, Manning remains attached to the centre of the lawn, listening intently, but all he hears is the last miserable tone, dragging out its death on the crisp, wintry air. As it leaves the arena, it is replaced by a silence: a stretch of uncomfortable silence; some indeterminable seconds of cold stillness tampering with the air, frosting it.16


Manning pauses for a moment, abandoning the puzzle, and considers that if it were not for the bells then all around him was as it should be: the props, the cast and the dialogue typical of the February morning stage. More so, the garden looked to be on the edge of wakening. A vibrant dose of late winter sun graced it, bringing textures into crisp outline, giving them depth and colour; and with the added joy of raising the temperature to a mild degree, pleasing him as much as the robins and greenfinches.17


But his pleasured musing is short-lived, for there is more mystery: the chimes do not continue their dissonant dance, they simply return to normal; unapologetically returning to their timeless patterned duty; instantly shrugging off any possible embarrassment or discomfort, playing as if they have never and never will have need of speaking anything new.18


Manning’s reaction is one of piqued interest and consternation.19

‘Schizophrenic bells this morning!,’ he exclaims, almost half a question to be answered, loudly enough for the words to travel over the garden fence. But there is no response from next door. Manning saunters over, brushing up against the flimsy structure, resting his chin on top, unexpectedly inhaling some residual fumes from last weekend’s marathon session of fresh creosoting.20


A pinched cough follows, then a tiny splutter; the sequence rounded off with a muted ‘Anyone home?’ But still there is no response.21


The bells, the bells,’ Manning half-attempts to tuck his arm into the small of his back but holds back, pointless as there is no obvious audience. 22


The ruffled expression returns to his face. In all the years Manning has lived in the village, he has rarely heard anything original from the bells - bar occasional musical celebrations of some quite eccentric, and no doubt outmoded Christian festivals - but even they were far removed from these undignified tones.23


The contemplation continues beyond the bell’s finale. Manning remains standing, cogitative, hanging grudgingly on to the dispiriting tones, casting his mind wide, attempting to identify their source. Perhaps, he considered that if one were to strike a set of tuned bronze bells, as in a carillon, it could produce a sound similarly sinister in tone: he’d heard that the larger bells of a carillon could produce sounds with sufficient energy to rattle the windows in nearby homes. But there was something quite unmusical in the ones still resonating on his senses.24


Manning shakes his head, disagreeing with all this muddled conjecture; acknowledging that it would be entirely unprecedented for an ordinary church to acquire such a mammoth instrument, and a thoroughly expensive one at that.25


The trails of less bright theories follow, leading to little resolution, frustrating him further. He begins to pace; the mystery travelling up and down the garden, from wall to plot, several times over before he reaches a simple decision. Rather than going out of his way to investigate the incident now, he would instead call in at the church on his way back from Leat. If he happened to get the timing right he would bump into the reverend; a chance to talk straight to the horse’s mouth. And besides, he was slightly buoyed by the anomaly. It was a fine little mystery for him to play detective to. He liked that sort of thing. 26


Papers and tobacco in hand, Manning locks the conservatory door and toddles off to pick up his luggage for the weekend. It arrives at the car in two small holdalls, which are promptly shoved in the back. Engine on.27


The journey south is uneventful and expedient, the vagaries of the season firmly kept at bay; as too the curious incident of the bells, restricted to a cell at the back of his mind. Instead, his thoughts are filled with the prospect of lush coastal scenery, and a little bibliophilic ambition - and even if it was entirely identical to the ambition he reserved for journeying, this time it was accompanied by a naggingly good feeling that he would return from the trip in possession of something quite special.28


A little before eleven and the car rolls down a pleasant coastal lane - narrow, leafy and quiet – dropping into the drive at the back of his weekend retreat: a guesthouse, one of many properties in the area baring walls painted in regulation colours (white from a choice of white, wheaten, pale blue or the slightly more adventurous canary-yellow.) Manning stops the car and pops his head out of the window, following the line up to the top of the hotel. The place looks cheerful enough, attractive even, and more importantly it looks only to be a stone’s throw from the beach and estuary. And so, with a little vigour in his step, he strolls swiftly up the cobbled path, past a multitude of garden ornaments, and enters the little house.29


The entrance runs into a carpeted reception area and adjoining staircase, all brightly lit and homely. Panning around, he delights in the charming paraphernalia adorning the walls, mementos of travel and expedition: maps, several hand-carved masks, a mounted fishing catch and a large tapestry possibly from Africa.30


The desk is busy and Manning waits, enjoying listening to the manager as he concludes his “whys and wherefores of the hotel and its surrounds” speech.31

He gazes up the flight of stairs to the first floor, hoping that the hotel has remembered a request for a room on the top floor, with a view overlooking the shore.32


Following a round of pleasantries with the manager, and confirmation that the room is indeed situated at the top of the hotel, he begins a climb of four flights, up past the neglected wells of green-flocked wallpaper and mock antique panelling, to the fourth floor, to a south-facing room, the one with the view.33


Flinging the door aside, he is delighted to find that the room is pleasant and airy. Manning unpacks eager to step out onto the balcony to indulge the view and pick out suitable spots for an afternoon stroll.34


Outside, the scenery is entirely what he has hoped for: bathed in a rich, low light that bounces and sparkles along the mouth of the estuary, spotlighting the birds clustered at the brimming rock-pools. At this elevation, he is able to pick out what looks to be a relatively uncomplicated route down to the beach; a path running parallel to the narrow stretch of sand directly below his window, along the estuary, towards the southern shores of Gull Island. Manning stares at the beach and muses that if it were not for the gnawed edges of the path, where trees had lost their footing, the entire sweep would be one long, sandy smooth edge, typical of so many coastal landscapes.35

Retreating from the water’s edge, he looks out onto a line of trees, separated from the shore by a small road, judging the road to be an extension of the main route into Leat. He is confident that it provides access to the beach. Squinting slightly, Manning is able to make out a small gap in the road’s natural boundary, a possible path through the trees and onto the shore.36


This will be his day’s first venture: a stroll along the beach, perhaps a couple of miles, passing the Watch House and onto the village and its handful of antiquarian bookshops.37


Manning packs a small rucksack and leaves the hotel, embarking on the gentle stroll towards the sea. The road is easy to follow and meanders for half a mile, then narrows into a straight descent, bounded by trees he recalls seeing from the hotel window. The roadside hangs heavy with growth and as far as he can see there is no clear thoroughfare.38

Manning grows frustrated. It strikes him that the mental map he drew of the area from the hotel balcony must have flaws. He decides to turn back and reconsider the route. But as he does, a gap in the hedge reveals itself, a short distace ahead, flush against the roadside, a clear break in the thickening of brambles. Here the thorny stems have been cut back revealing a narrow path, appearing to dip several feet ahead. Manning steps off the road and onto the path, making his way along its uneasy blend of shingle, sand and weathered roots. Before long he comes upon a pair of trees, denuded of leaves, hanging on for dear life: their roots almost completely exposed; their trunks leaning towards the land in a desperate bid to achieve some counterbalance. He ponders that it can only be a matter of weeks or months before the sea will claim them.39


A little brushing aside of holly, and a careful peeling back of some overgrown nettles reveals a clear view of the route ahead. Pressing on, he slips his feet down the bank, searching for accessible footholds. The earth crumbles below, and the slumping land sends him down an uncomfortable elevator the final few yards, propelling him onto the shore.40


The tide is out. In its place are acres of undulating mud banks, patrolled by wading birds. Dotted around the mounds sit oystercatchers, curlews and black headed gulls, all engaged in the unceasing drill of scanning the area for food, ruffling feathers and shrieking against the grey.41

Manning stands and watches the theatre for some time. Then, feeling a little tired, he searches for the most comfortable of the scattered trunks. The wood is bone dry, despite the regular wash from rain and tide, and its ridged, gnarled surface makes it difficult to find a suitable seat. Eventually, he settles, catching his breath, ready to embrace with the splendid view. The light is more than adequate for unaided viewing, but still he chides himself for forgetting to bring binoculars.42


In the past, finding such spots was done accompanied, with partners or friends; or sometimes a person he knew only vaguely, acquired from a chance meeting at a book group or rambling society. But somehow, he felt burdened by company – no, not burdened - just a overwhelming sense that his companion would irritate; an annoyance effected by some faint praise that had to be prised off their lips, or worse still, given to cheap sentiment; chat sprinkled liberally with careworn phrase: words that deconstructed the moment, that siphoned away the subtlety.43


He had tried desperately to tolerate this sort of person. He knew it was entirely normal to be this sort of person. And how could any two people be expected to share identical interests, let alone a corresponding level of enthusiasm and appreciation? It was the way of the world: it was best to tolerate and make sacrifices than be alone. But the more he tried, the more he failed, and the more he craved acceptance of his own shortcomings. So he stopped wishing and chose to journey alone.44


A gust of wind swirls around his head, feather-dancing across his face, shifting his gaze from the southern shores of Gull Island to the grey expanse of mid-estuary; and there, almost immediately, his eyes are drawn to two large objects.45


The first is a protrusion of timber thrusting upward from the mud, tailing off to a sharp point, shrouded in a mass of spidery sea-mist. The second, a corpulent slab of wood, only a boat distance from the first, but much larger and denser, and laid out flat. He flips between the two, blinking, adjusting his vision, attempting to get the best view possible. But something quite curious takes place. From behind the hulk of wood that sits to the west, a tiny shape emerges. At first it looks to be the bow of a yacht, or other small craft, but as its silhouette pulls away from the jutting timber it takes on human shape.46

The figure is set at such a distance that it is impossible to deduce whether it is man, woman or child; nevertheless Manning is quite certain that it is a person, though entirely beyond his comprehension how the individual came to be in such a predicament. An enthusiastic individual could lose their way, distracted by the dreamy landscape of the rock-pools and their treasure chests of discovery; but surely not too the point where they became an indistinguishable speck, starkly placed against the expanse of sandy glare; not before a sense of remoteness would rouse them.47


Manning looks on, enchanted by the strange spectacle, watching the figure moving languidly, morphing from an upright position to crouching, then lower still, almost recumbent on the sand. There the shallow silhouette lies, dormant, possibly resting. Manning senses his own posture has become quite taut, his tense unblinking eyes sore and watery. He rubs his face, resting one hand on his chin, a thumb pressed into the sinewy recess of his jaw. 48


Dramatically the figure lurches forward, propelling itself towards the opposing slab. There it remains quite still, resting against the foundation. Manning can no longer resist blinking. He closes his eyes, crushing down on the folded lids, hoping to squeeze out an improved view. When he looks back, the figure has gone. Instinctively, he assumes that whoever the person is must be waiting behind the second wooden slab; and so he trains his eyes left of structure, expecting the impish creature to emerge. But several minutes elapse and the scene remains unchanged. 49


An ineluctable urge grips him, nudging him forward, shoving him down the shingle bank, pushing him closer to the edge of the flats; all the while his sight remains doggedly fixed to the point where the figure was last observed. He stands at the edge of the intertidal zone and its vast expanse of muddy platforms and continues his diligent surveillance, hot and flustered by the desire to continue, despite the dormancy of the scene before him. The path ahead, a lonely route through roiled, miry waters will most certainly be a desolate and treacherous one. His mind dredges up tales of walkers trudging through estuary beds and ignoring warnings, finding their paths becoming slow and tortuous, hampered by viscous sediment. Or worse still, the thought of isolation, alone on one of the multitude of raised mud flats that seem positioned to entice the ill-advised and unsuspecting, surrounded by water and currents too strong to swim through. He badgers himself to continue on the path, tormented by the thought that the figure has been seduced siren-like by the sea of tiny islands, alone and desperate for help. With a surge of emotion, Manning takes a few hesitant steps forward, but watches in quiet alarm as his boots sink deep into the swamp. A final step is a drop of several inches into the cloying mire; thick grey-green pools of water, rich with sediment, rushing in to fill the grooves around his boots. He stops, heeding the signs, staring at the two pillars of wood that have brought him this far.50


He uses the moment to calm himself, establishing that it would be foolish not to entertain the possibility that the light has somehow played an elaborate trick on him. Mirages are indeed a reasonably well-reported phenomenon and it would not be entirely fantasy to consider something similar happening on a dimly lit coast: some peculiar aspect of the light picking up a shadow from the shore and transplanting it to the middle of the estuary. And what if he did believe that he had really seen something? There were many explanations that did not point to anything unnatural. Besides, his observations did not detect any obvious signs of distress; to the contrary, it looked more as if the figure was at play, happy in a game of hide-and-seek or similar. No, it was in his interests to consider much more rational thought.51

A moment later, in the distance, another shape alights on his senses, but something far less spectral. Between the opposing shore and the jutting timber, he makes out a small boat, directed at an acute angle to the tide. The figure in the boat is indistinguishable, though he can clearly make out a pair of outstretched arms, oaring the boat back to land. A sense of relief swamps him: surely this was the figure he observed on the mudflats. The boat continues its movement, fading against the sea mist, flickering and blurring diaphanous into the low winter light. Manning is relieved; it is obvious that the boat and occupant are heading to safety. A final scan of the horizon and his confidence grows, assured that what he observed - though somewhat unusual - was an individual who obviously knew the flats much better than him.52

He stands for a moment gazing at the wooden structures, then, hesitantly, turns around, making his way back up the shingle, a look of contentment hanging precariously on his face...... 53

To be continued.... 54