The Cliff Steps, Southbourne

A Memory of Southbourne.

Year 1955 because it's central to the time we lived just a few doors down in a new bungalow (Khandala), from the Thorpe's café (it was west towards the roundabout, north side of the road) and one of my cherished memories as a child, is of walking down to the dliff steps (steep then) and standing halfway down in very thick mist (couldn't see the hand in front of your face), feeling almost totally isolated except for the sound of the waves crashing below, and yet totally at peace and one with all creation at the same time.  Great stress releaser and highly recommended to the reasonably stable minded.

Now I begin to understand why I loved it so, being a poet and dreamer, musician, photographer and artist of sorts.  Never managed to bring my son there (www.permanentgreen.com for his art, photography and music), haven't been back myself for 50 years, wow, just realised this IS the anniversary year, as we left with Mum in November of 1957 to move to Toronto.  Dad had been with De Havilland's at Christchurch, and moved with them to the Canadian side the previous January.  

I remember the Major and his wife who lived above the shops across the street, in a flat (you can probably see it in the 1955 photo), who had brought back artefacts and curios from his service in India, and loved talking to my Dad who was born in Bombay.  And I remember walking down the lane nearby which led to the sand dunes on the top of the cliffs behind that row of shops.  Strangely enough, I ended up living in Castle Matrix, Rathkeale, County Limerick, Ireland, in 1981 only to discover that our nearest neighbour, Doreen Guiry, had worked for those same years in the very Victorian bed and breakfasts along St. Catherine's Road I used to walk past!   

Still miss those sand dunes, even though the wind would share them with our front lawn much to my mother's chagrin, and those misty weather walks down the road to the cliff top with only the sound of the birds and waves for company.  Everybody else was much too sensible to be out on those days!   Thank you for this opportunity to share.  Liz Kay Forrest O Driscoll