Here’s where you can enjoy submitted audio, video, image and poetic answers to “What does the beach mean to you…?“ from Supporters and beach-goers. Please use the send your answer menu to share your impressions of the beach. You can also read people’s text answers here.
This Supporter guest answer is from Lizzie, of Suffolk Cottage Holidays, who support the Aldeburgh, Southwold, Walberswick, Shingle Street and Orford beach pages in Suffolk, film courtesy of mote of dust films.
This guest answer, from Jasmine at Ko Phi Phi Don in southern Thailand, was filmed near Shark Point. Jasmine’s photos can be seen here.
Emma Gibb, at Findhorn Bay in Moray, Scotland.
Here’s a second poetic eulogy to the beach from Emma, again at Findhorn beach.
This photo of Maroubra beach in Sydney, New South Wales, Australia was sent in anonymously.
This photo of Pin Mill in Suffolk was sent in by interviewee Hazel, beach page here.
This photo of Juist beach in Lower Saxony, Germany, was also sent in anonymously.
This photo of Ardalanish beach, on the Ross of Mull in Scotland, was sent in by Jenny.
This photo, of a sunset at West Bay in North Berwick, East Lothian, was sent in by Sue.
This photo, of Findhorn Bay in Moray, North East Scotland, was sent in by Emma Gibb, beach page here.
These two photos, showing seaweed on the machair behind the Bay at the back of the Ocean on Iona in Scotland, with a daytime view above and a sunset view below, were sent in by Supporter Wendy, of Argyll Hotel, beach page here.
This photo was sent in anonymously without identification, via the send your answer Dropbox.
These poems were sent in by Lesley, from Cornwall:
July in Skye
Calmness becomes you Skye,
the quiet waters of the Sound of Sleat
reach out to your shores,
just a hint of a ripple shows your tidal ways,
your surface a deep mirror
reflecting rare beauty,
boats whose sails remind me
of pressed cotton hankies
glide slowly and silently southward,
their pace in keeping with Skye life.
At way past bedtime dusk arrives,
its half light stays till sunrise at four;
an orange glow rises behind distant hills,
morning glory too tame a phrase
for the dawn of another Skye day.
Crackington Haven, a Cornish coastal cove
that speaks to me in sounds of the sea,
its surfing waves chasing the sand
teasing the pebbled line the land’s behind.
I listen to the wind constantly blustering
its course along the cliff path, high above
you, Crackington Haven. Trying to walk
I can barely stand; I wait a while,
catch my breath and look down at your
beauty that’s breath taking too.