Carol Donaldson

Our island home. We are leaving the island, only for a few hours but we fear invaders will colonise during our absence. Not the hoards of invasive brown tailed moth caterpillars that swarm over every item we leave on the ground. No, those invaders were here first. We fear human Invaders. The island has become home. "I'm going upstairs to fetch the water," Steve says, referring to our fortress kitchen reached by crossing the moat on a scaffold plank that bounces and squeeks wh

The oystercatchers tell me to get lost. We are not wanted, that much is clear. They haven’t got the memo, the sea pies, geese and gulls. failed to get up to speed with the growing consensus that People Need Nature. or maybe it is us that has failed to read the memo. Nature doesn’t need us. Doesn’t want us. “Clear off, get lost,” the oystercatchers and greylags shout. “Get off our patch,” the herring gull cry. “Be gone,” the caterpillars signal in shadow play, even as they att

High tide by Stephen Turner The birds rose at high tide, fluttering above the island as their nests disappeared under water. There was a panic emanating from the gull colony on Bishop's Ness which carried across the water and reached us as we stood helplessly on the island fort watching it's demise. I felt the panic touch me too as it would if I was watching a human tragedy unfold. I could feel the birds distress, the weeks of courting and competing for nest sites, the laying

Ready for my close up "it doesn't take long," I say to Steve, "before you go entirely feral." I am sitting on the causeway of Horrid Hill with a chunk of (vegan warning) Spam on the point of my knife, holding the rope tethering our boat Magwitch to the shore. I am windswept, salt worn, fingernails black from wood fired. The people walking past gog at me. A women passing wearing vibrant lipstick calls, "I love boating, what a great life." You wouldn't look so glamorous if you

Gulls above Normarsh Luncheon options!!

We cast off and head out on the river in the brief gap between showers. Steve looks a little nervous as the heavily laden inflatable boat, christened Magwitch, is buffeted by the winds and I realize I forgot to pack the sea sickness tablets. The river is busy with Monday morning activity. Orange and white dredgers churn up river with the tide and the army are out, giddying in circles as they practice manoeuvres. Cool men in Ray bans and camouflage ignore my cheery wave. As we

Beginning at the window left of the gang plank. Tide arching in. Deep water channel. V for victory. Dot, dot,dot dash. Normarsh. Two Brent geese flying past. Wren singing crystal bright from deep in the bramble. Towards the saltings . Gulls rising, geese crying, Steve drawing. A tangle of bramble. A slice of blue sky, cranes silenced, dipped in reverence towards the winds. Kingsnorth, or what’s left of it. Scene of climate crusade. Gordon’s chimney now just a memory. A tangle

The island rises up from sea, the colour of a wood pigeons wing as I sit in the bow motoring the short distance across the main channel. The water is peppered with rain, visibility is reduced. We feel so exposed, attracting concerned looks from the few yaughtsmen braving the weather. The fort is a squat dark stain on the horizon. It is a safe haven from the storm racing up behind us. Despite it all I feel strangely tranquil, calmed by the waves as they pass me and head toward

Looking forward to exploring more of the hidden estuary next week

When heading out for a weeks adventuring in a small boat on a big river, don't forget to pack your death bag!!