KYST 47 – from Lilleå, Sose Bay to Mølledam, 23.11.18

For at læse denne KYST 47 blog på dansk, se her

See here for an introduction to the KYST project

KYST 47 The day was cold, dank and grey. A thick blanket of grey cloud completely obscured the rising sun and the brisk onshore wind was bitterly cold. I unpacked my things from the car and looked over the broad sweep of Sose bay. As I turned to pick up my rucksack I caught sight of a sparrowhawk flying fast and low over the field heading straight towards me. In a flash the hawk shot past, slicing through the air in silent intensity and slamming straight into a hawthorn bush from where the panicked scream of a blackbird filled the air. What a start to the day.

I walked along the cliff edge, heading east in order to arrive at the place I finished last week’s trip. To my left fields and to my right the cliffs and then the sea.

I soon arrived back at the beach and headed west again, now below the path upon which I had just walked. The water was low, thankfully as a high water sometimes makes it difficult to walk below the cliffs. Great landslides of mud and clay collapsed onto the beach taking trees and grass and depositing them on the pebbly shore.  The coastline was being eaten by the waves, and the clifftop path I had just walked on would soon end up on the beach below. I looked back towards the east and painted the rich and dynamic colours and patterns, with rivulets of water seeping through the clay and running out on to the sand.

I packed up and walked on, arriving at the strange little quay or landing stage at Sose point, in front of which several fishermen were already waist deep in the water amongst the rocks. I walked on and found myself in a new bay with good views to the west – of next week’s destination, Arnager, and the faintest glimpse of Rønne and the journey’s end, beyond that. The geology was fascinating with a bewildering and I was split between wanting to paint the intricate patterns of the rust red ironstone and the layers of sediment exposed on the sloping sea cliffs. In the end I looked down and concentrated on the tiny strands of half-submerged seaweed leaving delicate patterns on the sand.

Hidden behind the clouds, the sun had already begun its descent and I was feeling pressured with my lack of physical and creative progress. At Dalegårdsodden I stopped for a quick lunch under the M60, where I became fixated on the subtle and understated tones and colours of the sea and sky. For the first time since starting the KYST trip, I worked on a full and uncut sheet of watercolour paper (detail, see also top).

A fine dusty rain coupled with the generous washes of water and pigment meant that the paper took an eternity to dry. Before I could begin on the sea I needed to wait for the sky to dry somewhat, so I turned my attention to the rather stark and foreboding silhouette of the trees behind me. Most of the trees had dropped their leaves now, and it felt winter-like for the first time since much earlier in the year.

I packed up and walked on, exploring the open area by Mølledal, where dunes sloped gently from the coast up to some summerhouses hidden within a small pine plantation. By three in the afternoon the day was almost over. I sat and watched a solitary mute swan bobbing around in the choppy waves. The day seemed so short and dull and the weather so harsh, I wondered how the swan could thrive or even exist in such an environment. As the light faded and the misty fine rain returned, the swan preened and jigged about in the water, both separate from, and at one with, the world surrounding it.



Weather report = Cloudy all day. Temperature between 2°C and 3°C. Wind between 4 and 6 m/s from the southeast. Hours of sunshine: 0 hours.

Lessons learned – I tried out my new binoculars today – they were a vast improvement on the old pair.

Stops with the M60 = 1

Kilometers walked = 7.53 km

Day lasted = 7 hours, 57 minutes

Birds seen and heard = 18 species (0 new ones =  running total 138)

Other stuff = The KYST project consists of 52 journeys, and since starting I have tried to see each trip as a signifier for each year of my life. While physically walking around, I’ve tried to recall my life events during the corresponding year. Thus, I started school in Brighton as a five year old child during KYST 05 – just before Hasle, I became a teenager at KYST 13 as I rounded the Hammer peninsula, and I met my wife Tina just before I reached Gudhjem during KYST 22,. My first child was born just outside of Bølshavn, and I moved to Bornholm at Snogebæk during KYST 37.

KYST 47 then, marks the point where I have ‘caught up with myself’, and amazingly my 48th birthday is actually next Tuesday. It has been an enlightening way of visualizing my life and manifesting the passing of time in a physical and visual way. At Duegårdsodde I stopped and marked the point where I pass into the future for the remaining five trips. I thought a lot about my life and the choices I’ve made and been forced to make, knowingly or not. I thought about people I’ve known and their own journeys around, some of whom whose lives had been tragically cut short.

People talked to = 6 ( 1 + 1 + 2 + 2)

In my head – My son in Auckland, Library project and deadlines, BJJ, poker.

KYST 46 – from Risebæk to Lilleå, Sose Bay, 16.11.18

For at læse denne KYST 46 blog på dansk, se her

See here for an introduction to the KYST project

KYST 46 From the car park I walked sodden fields to the start point at Risegård. Despite the gloomy weather forecast the sky was completely clear and the onshore wind was steady rather than strong. The small hawthorn bush that I had ended last week’s KYST trip with had completely lost its leaves and a tangled mess of brambles, rosehips, bushes and trees were silhouetted dramatically against the delicate hues of the new day.


I walked down to the coast and headed west until I found the much reduced outlet of the Rise stream, which I followed back up, through a tiny steep and wooded valley, until I came to the small waterfall marking the divide between the Silurian Slate and the more easily eroded Triassic clays. It is a tiny geological feature, and the waterfall was nothing but a trickle, but it felt wonderful to be alone, surrounded and confronted by physical manifestations of layered time.


Eventually I packed up and continued along the coast, with the wind and sun on my back. I walked along a dynamic coast of clay, shale, siltstone and sandstone. An incredibly eclectic and multicoloured collection of large sandstone and granite boulders lined the shore, collecting in larger groups where the coast jutted out into the sea.


To my right the layers of red and green clay oozed on to the beach, sometimes banded with sandstone or shale, and sometimes forming a steep escarpment or cliff in part collapsed or eroded by the sea. Many of the higher and softer escarpments were riddled with the burrows of nesting sand martins.  As I walked along the coast I thought about how every time I visited this part of the coast it seems altered or transformed by the weather conditions, or changes wrought by a storm. I thought about the incessant action of the waves and wind, the scouring and scraping of glaciers, the movement and shifting of continental plates, the subterranean heat and pressure – the action of time and energy through seconds, days, years, and through millennia.


I continued along the coast for a while, eventually stopping under the M60 for a respite from the wind and a bite to eat. Here I collected a random collection of beach pebbles and made some detailed colour studies. Despite the incredible diversity of colours, patterns and textures is there did seem to be an undercurrent of visual harmony.


Already the day was racing away from me and I continued along the broad sweep of the Sose bay. Looking back from where I had been, the low sun enriched the autumnal browns and oranges of the coastal vegetation.


I reached the mouth of the Lilleå, where I sat for a while and watched the sun as it dropped down towards the horizon. I made one last sketch (see top) of Sose bay battling with the humidity and changing light conditions, before packing up and trudging exhaustedly all the way back to the car park.


Weather report = Unbroken sun all day. Temperature between 10°C and 5°C. Wind between 4 and 7 m/s from the southeast. Hours of sunshine: 8.5 hours.

Lessons learned – I took a larger drawing board and was very happy with it. Also, don’t get sand on the bottom of the rubber water cup, it will slide off and spill.

Stops with the M60 = 1

Kilometers walked = 6.37 km

Day lasted = 8 hours, 27 minutes

Birds seen and heard = 18 species (0 new ones =  running total 138)

Other stuff = Very few birds today. Strange. I did see some wonderful Long tailed ducks, my first since Spring, which seemed to confirm both the circular passing of time, and how close I am to finishing this KYST project.

People talked to = 2 ( 1 + 1)

In my head – Birdman, the movie, Shallows the song, Tor’s impending visit to New Zealand, BJJ, deadlines, the kindness of strangers


KYST 45 – from Boderne to Risebæk, 09.11.18

For at læse denne KYST 45 blog på dansk, se her

See here for an introduction to the KYST project

KYST 45 I drove across the island through a thick fog and arrived back at Boderne harbour a few minutes late. The sunrise was, in any case, obscured behind the fog and there was no real sense of the day starting, just a very gradual and almost imperceptible lightening. There was no wind and thus almost complete silence, and looking towards the sea from the end of the harbour, the complete lack of visual and auditory information created a feeling of weightlessness and instability. A young heron was perched on a rock by the harbour and I unpacked and got to work right away.

After a brief preening session the young heron hunkered down and gazed vacantly into the fog, reminding me of an unkempt and slightly chavvy teenager. The yellowish tobacco-like stain on his chest feathers added weight to my anthropomorphizing, but I resisted my urge to paint a fag (Benson & Hedges?) hanging from his beak.

Eventually leaving the harbour and my obliging model, I packed up and walked on.  Læs Stream is Bornholm’s widest and largest stream, but the months of drought meant I could literally step over it where it emptied onto the beach. Soon I paused, unpacked again and painted the view to the west. The fog was already starting to lift, but the humidity still presented a challenge as the paper refused to dry.

I trudged on, keeping close to the water’s edge and the harder sand, enjoying the respite from the wind that had accompanied me on my last few KYST trips. The beach was deserted and silent, save for the water gently lapping onto the shore and the occasional plaintive robin song. The day felt incredibly peaceful. I climbed up on to the ridge that ran parallel to the shore and painted the wonderful rich autumnal colours.

I walked on for a while, but a passing shower forced me to take refuge under the M60. Sheltered from the rain I painted the blue-grey Jurassic clay that oozed out onto the beach. A little further on I could see the point from where a pier had been built over 100 years ago to ship out clay quarried at Munkerup, for use in Frederiksholms Factory in Copenhagen. The quarry has long since been filled but two people I met could still recall the remnants of the pier supports still standing in their childhood, and on the beach I found rusted metal tracks half-hidden in the sand

I packed up and explored the rough area behind the beach, a patchwork of hawthorn, cherry and birch in rich autumnal hues. As I headed towards Risegaard back down on the beach, I wondered at the rich layers of clay that folded and crumpled along the shore, banded and cracked in parts and stained with ochre.

Further still, the Jurassic Munkerup formation was replaced by the older Triassic Kågerød formation and the layers of clay turned into an impossible turquoise hue and then a deep kidney red, intersected in parts by layers of grainy ochre sandstone. The colourful clay combined with the pastel coloured pebbles on the shore and the autumnal vegetation to create an understated and rather unexepcted riot of colour (see top).

By now the sun, hidden as it was, was nearing the horizon and I climbed up into the open area by Risegård for one last foray. The rich colours and interesting shape of a small hawthorn seemed to speak out to me and I sat and painted, exhausted as ever but happy with the day’s unfolding and full of the rich organic hues of autumn on south Bornholm.


Weather report = Foggy, then  overcast, with light showers. Temperature between 7°C and 9°C. Wind between 1 and 2 m/s from the southwest. Hours of sunshine: 0 hours.

Lessons learned – lessons forgotten…

Stops with the M60 = 1

Kilometers walked = 8.45 km

Day lasted = 8 hours,51 minutes

Birds seen and heard = 36 species (1 new one = redwing  – running total 138)

Other stuff = Several times large flocks of barnacle geese flew overhead and headed out over the sea, before turning back. I wondered if any of the flocks contained the red-breasted goose that has been on Bornholm together with the Barnacles over the last few days.

People talked to = 4 ( 1 + 1 + 2)

In my head – BJJ all the way, the Bornholm sports and culture prize.

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KYST 44 – from Raghammer Odde to Boderne, 02.11.18

For at læse denne KYST 44 blog på dansk, se her

See here for an introduction to the KYST project

KYST 44 From the car park, I walked into the open area that is Raghammer Odde. The sky was leaden and the wind howled in from the sea. Before reaching the coast, a walk of a kilometer or so, I sheltered under the M60 umbrella and painted the heath with the birch and pine forest behind. Within minutes a large truck pulled up, the driver asking what I was up to. Evidently the M60 aroused suspicion.

Leaving the shelter of the M60 I walked around a while, across the tracks of military vehicles, and over trenches and bunkers. The whole area was littered with sandbags and riddled with bullet holes. The colours were rich and intense, but again there were very few birds about.

As the clouds were replaced by clear skies I finally made it to the beach where I sat and looked towards the rising sun.

Some fishermen were already standing waist-deep in the roaring surf. I was impressed with how they managed to keep their balance and stoically endure the bitingly cold wind and waves.

I packed up and walked around the headland, past the fisherman and towards my destination, Boderne. No sooner had I begun when a flock of snow buntings flew right over my head and alighted not twenty metres from me. One of my all-time favorite birds, I quickly crouched down and unpacked all my gear again, nearly losing my paper in the wind. As I finally locked on to them, paintbrush ready, they flew off again. I quickly tried to capture the energy of their movement and flight, their white wings and contrasting tails and wingtips flashing, before the image faded from my mind (see top)

Soon, they returned again, and I was ready – but again they stayed for just half a minute or so, before bouncing off down the coast.

I walked on and found a lovely sheltered and sun kissed spot behind the dunes, where I enjoyed my weekly pot noodle and some strong coffee. Eventually I willed myself to pack up and walked back up to the crest of the dunes, where a buzzard was hanging on the wind on the lookout for rodents. Back and forth he sailed, hanging for a while and then swooping off, like a giant brown kestrel. Soon there were two and I got to work.

Things were going well and the buzzards were the perfect models. But then my pencil ran out of lead and the buzzards moved off, and I was left with a large unfinished piece of paper. I tried to recall the shape and form of the buzzards with my brush, working from right to left, but the image, feeling and energy of the buzzards faded and I was left floundering.

Up on the dune and looking west, I could see the waves rolling into the bay and the lime-green dune grass pulsating in the wind. Beyond the small harbour of Boderne, Sose Odde (KYST 47) and then Arnager (KYST 49) were clearly visible. I became aware, for the first time really, of how close I was to circumnavigating the island.

I carried on, this time on the beach, all the way to Boderne, where I wandered around for a while. The sun had been replaced again by a thick layer of clouds and the wind whipped through the masts of the small boats jostling in the harbour. Time was running out and I was exhausted, the wind had really drained me of energy. I sat and painted a part of the harbour but I was done by now. The setting sun left no trace, but then suddenly a bright crimson line along the horizon lit up the sky and brightened my mood.


Weather report = Cloudy, then sunny, then cloudy again. No rain. Temperature between 9°C and 11°C). Wind between 6 and 8 m/s from the southwest. Hours of sunshine: 5.5 hours.

Lessons learned – when taking down the M60, release the catch first, then take out the pegs (took me 44 trips to work this out…)

Stops with the M60 = 2

Kilometers walked = 7.78 km

Day lasted = 9 hours, 32 minutes

Birds seen and heard = 26 species (1 new one = snow bunting  – running total 137)

Other stuff = I was disappointed with the lack of birds at Raghammer Odde, it is usually good for raptors, shrikes, and so on. Then the snow bunting turned up. Nature never disappoints if you’re in it. Something always happens. Always.

People talked to = 3 ( 1 + 2)

In my head – BJJ- The project I’m doing at Aakirkeby Library. 4321 Paul Auster.

KYST 43 – from Gedebak Odde to Raghammer Odde, 29.10.18

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See here for an introduction to the KYST project

KYST 43 I arrived back at Gedebak Odde three days later than planned due to military exercises at Raghammer Odde on the Friday. It was cold, wet and windy and for the first time since April I was clad in my thermal flying suit, as well as waterproofs, gloves and a wooly hat. Settling on the beach, I got to work immediately on a slice painting. The sky was incredibly dynamic and the gunmetal grey and deep indigo-blue clouds shot past overhead, sometimes accompanied by a rain shower. I struggled in the windy and wet conditions.


Eventually I walked on along the sandy beach. The sea was high and the waves took bites out of the coast. Thankfully the wind was on my back and not in my face. Often I was forced off the shore and on to the high dune that runs alongside the beach all the way to Raghammer Odde. The drizzle was relentless and I had to take shelter under the M60, but the soft sand meant it was impossible to secure it in the high wind.


Up on the dune I took shelter under the M60 and looked through vegetation towards the sea. There were few birds.


A group of gulls fed on the shore, picking small tidbits off the retreating waves. The rain and wind meant that I couldn’t sit and draw them through the telescope, so instead I retreated to the shelter of the umbrella, relying on my memory to guide me instead of the optical reality of the birds (see also top).


I wandered into the stunted pine forest that borders the dune and is part of the area used for military exercises. Save for the roar of the waves and the wind, it was silent and seemed empty of life. I carried on, all the way along the beach over the soft sand, dodging the incoming waves. Eventually I arrived at Raghammer Odde, a large open heathland where the military carry out regular military exercises. Despite, or perhaps because of this, the area is usually rich in birdlife and flora, but today in the relentless drizzle and wind there was very little showing. As the rain increased in severity I crawled under the M60 again, and tried to paint the rich colours of the Rugosa rose just next to one of the many bunkers.


Despite the grey dusky light, the wetness made all the colours incredibly intense – the strange pairing of the hot-pink flower with the tomato-red fruit, and the leaves all sorts of gold, yellow and green. I crawled out of the M60 and staggered exhaustedly towards my pick up point at the Raghammer car park, when the light was too dark to carry on, reassured with the thought that I would be returning in just four days



Weather report = regular showers and rain all through the day, some brief sunny periords. Temperature between 6°C and 8°C (though it felt much colder in the wind). Wind between 8 and 10 m/s from the east. Hours of sunshine: 0.5 hours.

Lessons learned – it is difficult dealing with the humidity and wind. I knew that anyway. My new hiking boots are good.

Stops with the M60 = 4

Kilometers walked = 7.80 km

Day lasted = 9 hours, 40 minutes

Birds seen and heard = 22 species (0 new ones – running total 136)

Other stuff = at one point a goldcrest almost landed on my arm as it picked methodically through the pines in the hunt for spiders and insects.

People talked to = 1

Snakkede med = 1

In my head – The trip to London last week. Hangovers. What ‘evil’ means.  ‘4321’ a book I’m reading by Paul Auster.


KYST 42 – from Slusegaard to Gedebak Odde – 19.10.18

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See here for an introduction to the KYST project

KYST 42 In good time again, I parked my car and walked down to the open heathland area at Slusegaard. On the way down to the coast I paused at the small stone marker that indicates the graticule of 15 degrees longitude east and 55 degrees latitude north. For the first time in many months, my toes and fingers were freezing, despite my wooly hat and gloves. The sky was clear and there was little wind, but the air was humid and I felt chilled to my bones.

Above, there was an almost constant stream of birds on the move: thrushes, siskins and greenfinches, with sparrowhawks and rough legged buzzards higher up. Eventually I moved down to the beach and basked in the warming sun. I painted the Ole stream emptying out into the sea – the unseasonably warm and dry weather meant that there was little more than a trickle.

On the large erratic boulder close to the shore – the same one that the swans had fought on last week – a cormorant and herring gull sat and preened together. After last week’s pessimism I felt relaxed and positive.

I found the swans again, this time feeding further out, silhouetted by the reflections of the rising sun.

I walked on, to the tiny harbour at Bakkerne, where a collection of small fishing boats rocked gently on their moorings. Just inland, a motley collection of summer houses nestled in the dunes, together with a few more permanent looking houses. Returning to the beach I continued westward and soon arrived at Holster Odde, where scores of coromorants, gulls and mallards perched on the large boulders that lay scattered in the shallow water. The small cape at Holster Odde markes the boundary between the Silurian slate and the younger Cretaceous Rabække formation that continues westward – a jump of some 300 million years. I sat and marked the spot with a slice painting (see top).

Before moving off I painted some studies of a wonderfully lit herring gull.

Now I walked all the way along the straight sandy beach to the Kadeau restaurant, in front of which I had arranged to meet someone. Sitting on the beach with the sun on our faces, it was difficult to believe that November was just a couple of weeks away. Several people swam in the crystal clear waters and I actually regretted not bringing a towel – to think I had been freezing just hours earlier. After some wonderful brownies and coffee, I continued westward, stopping to sketch the cloud formation that had momentarily obscured the sun and caused the temperature to plummet.

Further on still, my attention was caught by the shapes of the shifting sand in the dunes. Close to the shore, the forces of gravity and wind had created a miniature but ephemeral likeness of the Grand Canyon, not a metre high. Even whilst I sat there and painted small cascades of sand would periodically fall from the cliff face and gather on the slope below, as if time itself was sped up. Geological process that would usually unfold over thousands or even millions of years, were being played out before me, and as my eye soared over the sandy canyons I sensed a giddy feeling of omnipotence, as if I could control time and space.

I reached Gedebække Point with an hour or so until sundown. I wandered around on the dunes before finally settling in front of a small oak tree that was silhouetted against the setting sun, its autumn leaves ablaze. It had been a wonderful day and I walked back along the beach to the waiting car, as the sunset continued behind me.


Weather report = Unbroken sun for most of the day. Temperature between 7°C and 13°C (though it felt much hotter in the sun). Wind between 2 and 3 m/s from the northwest. Hours of sunshine: 9.5 hours.

Lessons learned – I felt as though I was better at not worrying too much about what I was doing and just enjoying the day.

Stops with the M60 = 0  (I didn’t take the M60 again)

Kilometers walked = 7.00 km (an estimate, as my phone ran out of batteries at Kadeau)

Day lasted = 10 hours, 20 minutes

Birds seen and heard = 40 species (1 new ones: bullfinch – running total 136)

Other stuff = the most fantastic weather on Bornholm, all week. On the beach a steady stream of joggers, dog walkers, fisherman and other people just enjoying the outside.

People talked to = 5 (1 +2 + 2)

In my head – The trip to London next week, ‘4321’ a book I’m reading by Paul Auster. The KYST book, applications…

KYST 41 – from Dammebæk (Udegårdsvejen) til Ole Å (Slusegård) – 12.10.18

For at læse denne KYST 41 blog på dansk, se her

se her for introduktion til KYST projektet

KYST 41 I arrived early and unpacked my things in good time. Although the day was mild and the sky completely cloud free, the onshore wind was cold and I regretted not taking my gloves and hat. After the last week’s unsatisfying KYST tur, I was in good spirits and eager to get to grips with the day. I painted the silhouetted pine trees with the blood red sky behind, including the metal cables visible on the beach that used to connect the 2nd WW German coastal fortifications on Bornholm with those on northern Poland.

I walked along the coast for a while. Wave-smoothed skeletons of pine trees, claimed by the vagaries of wind and wave, lay strewn amongst the surf. Some, more recently fallen, still retained branches and even pine cones. There were few birds and the incessant rumble of the tumbling waves filled the air.

I rounded the point of Sommerodde, and continued westward, the wind strong on my back. To my right, a thick and impenetrable forest of stunted pines, planted in the 1860s to halt the movement of the shifting dunes. The shadows on the sand caught my attention.

The wind and grass combined to draw circles in the sand.

Again, I quickly descended into a funk of self-loathing and dissatisfaction with how the day was progressing and how I was reacting to it. An all too familiar feeling of frustration meant that I grabbed wildly after things, instead of letting myself be taken in. I thought the intricate seaweed patterns at Stenodde might calm my nerves, but to no avail. Whereas I had been too cold, now I was too hot.

I carried on, and soon arrived at the mouth of the Øle stream. The many months of dry weather had reduced Bornholm’s longest river to an almost negligible trickle, and despite the unseasonably warm weather – or perhaps because of it – my thoughts drifted towards the environment and impending ecological Armageddon. A large flock of mute swans feeding in the surf caught my attention but I struggled with their movement and the constant bobbing of the waves (see also top).

I watched a swan sitting on a large flat-topped erratic boulder close to the shore.  I accidently spilt some water on the painting and everything got covered in sand. I came close to breaking a KYST rule and destroying it. I was about as low as I had been during the KYST project.

Another swan managed to get up on to the rock, and the two swans wrestled and pushed against each other. Eventually they both lost their footing tumbled into the sea together – it was a random and amusing little spectacle that somehow put things into perspective and cheered me up. I walked around for a while, and collected a group of colourful leaves.

From my perch on a dune overlooking the sea, I got to work on a slice painting. The completely cloudless sky created a different kind of sunset with enormously subtle graduations and blends of colour and tone. I struggled with the changing light and colour and fought hard, trying to depict the delicate tonal values. As the sun finally fell below the horizon the colours deepened, with the sky becoming a sort of strange muted horizontal rainbow.


Weather report = Unbroken sun all day. Temperature between 13°C and 18°C. Wind between 7 and 2 m/s from the southeast. Hours of sunshine: 11 hours.

Lessons learned – No lessons learned. Today, looking through yesterday’s work, I am actually pleasantly surprised. Next time I start to ‘lose it’ I will try to remember how I feel today.  I’m not doing this to be ‘happy’, but it shouldn’t be such a slog. I’m doing this because I love looking.

Stops with the M60 = 0  (I didn’t take the M60, for the first time)

Kilometers walked = 7.50 km

Day lasted = 11 hours, 11 minutes

Birds seen and heard = 34 species (2 new ones: White fronted goose (many hundreds, migrating) and a Hen harrier – running total 135)

Other stuff = it feels so ‘civilized’ now. I wake up at a ‘normal’ time and am back home by 7pm. I miss those long days of summer.

People talked to = 4 (2 + 2)

In my head – The KYST book, applications and so on.

KYST 40 – from Dueodde to Dammebæk (Udegårdsvejen), 05.10.18

For at læse denne KYST 40 blog på dansk, se her

See here for an introduction to the KYST project

KYST 40 I walked from the car park at Dueodde along the wooden walkway to the broad sandy beach where I had finished a week previously. It was mild but a strong onshore wind blew and I was well wrapped up. The sunrise was incredibly subtle and ephemeral, colours, tones and contrasts changing by the second. I got to work.

The huge sky opened up before me and the waves rolled into the sandy shore and deposited strands of seaweed amongst the sea rocket and sea grasses along the shore. A light dusty rain fell for a few minutes, but otherwise the dark blue and grey clouds only threatened.

An almost constant stream of migrating birds flew westward into the strong wind. Geese, ducks, gulls and cormorants powered over the choppy waves, while huge flocks of siskin and greenfinch bounced along the shore, sometimes feeding together with the energetic dunlin that frittered amongst the seaweed (see top). A small group of Brent geese struggled in the wind and the waves.

Already the energy and positivity with which I had started the day had been replaced by a negative mind frame and a feeling of frustration. I lacked a clean vision and was torn between painting and just looking at all of the passing birds. I wandered into the dunes and looked towards the new lighthouse. The dunes were covered in a kaleidoscopic carpet of heather and grasses. Several kestrels hovered in the wind above me and at one point an elegant Rough legged buzzard floated over the pine trees bordering the dunes, only to be chased off by a pair of belligerent ravens.

I paced around, enjoying the day but feeling guilty at my lack of KYST progress. The beach was a landscape in flux: dunes and lagoons in constant movement being pushed and pulled by the eternal motion of the waves and wind. The sand itself was a fascinating universe of pattern and texture, in some places held fast by the roots of the sea rocket and grasses, in others by the weight of the water. Where it was dry it flew over the surface of the beach in a fine mist. I painted a sheet of paper and let the wind-blown sand leave a trace on the wet pigment. It seemed to work, but once dry the sand fell off leaving no meaningful trace.

I carried on along the beach looking down at the incredible diversity of marks left by the elements. The waves traced mountain-like silhouettes of their movement in the sand, and drew calligraphic seaweed gestures amongst the pebbles.

I was fascinated by the shapes of the seaweed clumps on the shore line. Looking down there seemed to be an order or unity to their form.

The day had run away and the sun was already low over the horizon. I powered on, along the deserted sandy beach to my destination at Dæmmebæk. Here the sea was claiming the land, and the thinning beach was riddled with the carcasses of pine trees. I could see a wonderful sunset was cooking (my first KYST sunset since I headed around Hammerknuden at the north point of Bornholm, many months ago), but I had run out of tape and was unable to paint a slice painting, as I had wished. Instead I used the silhouetted trees as dividers, and worked from left to right, as the sky turned blood orange and then crimson red. Eventually, when the sun had completely set, I walked aback along the beach in dusky loneliness and creative frustration, all the way back to the car park at Dueoode.


Weather report = Mostly overcast with a few sunny periods. Temperature between 13°C and 15°C, though it felt much colder in the wind. Wind between 10 and 7 m/s from the southwest. Hours of sunshine: 1.5 hours.

Lessons learned – holding your watercolour pallet close to a windy sandy beach is a bad idea. Dueodde sand is very fine and gets everywhere..

Stops with the M60 = 0

Kilometers walked = 8.30 km

Day lasted = 11 hours, 29 minutes

Birds seen and heard = 44 species (4 new ones: Common tern, Sanderling, Rough legged buzzard, Bean Goose – running total 133)

Other stuff = a dog came and kicked sand all over my palette and paper. Was livid, but what can you do?

People talked to = 1

In my head – The wedding party in London on Saturday night, meeting people I hadn’t seen for over 25 years.

KYST 39 – from Bethesda (Stavnshavn) to Dueodde, 28.09.18

For at læse denne KYST 39 blog på dansk, se her 

See here for an introduction to the KYST project

KYST 39 Clad in gloves and a wooly hat for the first time in many months, I quickly unpacked my things and welcomed the sunrise on the broad sandy beach at Bethesda. The cold, clean air seemingly added to the clarity of the unfolding vision, and I began working on a slice painting, working from left to right and recording the changing colours and brightening of the day (above).

I wandered around the beach for a while. There had been storms and strong winds since last week’s trip, and it was fascinating to look down and see the innumerable sculptures and patterns carved into the sand by the wind and waves. Islands of searocket stood facing the wind like ships in a petrified ocean, while the sea grasses further inland inscribed delicate arcs on the sand in the wind.

Closer to the sea, tiny stones and pebbles balanced precariously on teardrop shaped platforms of sand, sculpted by the ceaseless action of the wind. There were landscapes, worlds, universes unfolding with every step, and it felt so far removed from the lichen covered granite boulders I had been walking through just ten or fifteen kilometres away, or a month or so ago.

Eventually I managed to pack up my things and walk along the shore. Dog walkers and joggers ambled by and the day felt fresh and invigorating. The water was high, and waves sometimes flooded the beach creating temporary lagoons, where wagtails and waders picked amongst the seaweed. The sea, sand and sky together formed a reflective kaleidoscope of changing light and shifting patterns, an ephemeral vision of muted tones and restless energy.

I stopped for lunch, under slept and exhausted, but was driven by a need to keep going, to explore and record. Looking south towards Dueoode, the day’s destination and Bornholm’s southerly point, the sun was reflected on the horizon, below columns of distant cumulus clouds. Though the temperature was only 14 degrees, it felt warm out of the wind.

On the shore not far from where I sat, I suddenly noticed a Little gull cavorting on the waves together with some Black headed gulls: the first time I had seen one so close and for such a long time. I wondered at the tiny bird, enjoying the wonderful sensation of acquainting myself with the special and unique characteristics of a new species.

Further on still I couldn’t help looking at the wind carved pebble trails in the sand.

I felt confused and tired, not really sure where to look or where to concentrate my gaze. At the same time, the sound of migrating birds filled the air. Earlier I had seen white tailed sea eagles circling above together with a red kite, while hobby falcons darted along the coast after dragonflies, and I didn’t want to miss out. The day was racing by, the shorter days really noticeable. The shadows were longer now, and the colours even more enriched and intense.

I reached the day’s destination, Dueodde, an hour or so before sundown. Here on Bornholm’s southern corner, I stood – three quarters of the way around the island and about to head west for the first time. I began to paint the clouds reflected in the lagoon, but regretted not painting a slice painting as the cloud bank slowly changed from cream, to yellow, then orange to vermillion, to finally the most delicate rose pink.


Weather report = Sunny for most of the day with a few cloudy breaks. Temperature between 10°C and 14°C, though it felt warmer in the sun. Wind between 10 and 14 m/s from the northwest. Hours of sunshine: 9 hours.

Lessons learned – tent pegs in the sand do not hold down the M60 in the wind.

Stops with the M60 = 2

Kilometers walked = 8.32 km

Day lasted = 11 hours, 58 minutes

Birds seen and heard = 38 species (5 new ones: Brent goose, Coal tit, Arctic tern, White tailed sea eagle, Little gull – running total 128)

Other stuff = Feeling sorry for myself and a little under the weather the whole day, despite the fine weather and the opportunity to spend all day outside. Shattered when I got home.

People talked to = 8 (all singles  + 2)

In my head – overwhelmed by the incredible visual feast and the migrating birds.