One of the casualties of this winter’s storms is Pom-Pom rock – a sea stack that used to stand just to the east of Portland Bill.
I remember the first time I saw Pom-Pom rock. It was not long after I had moved to the area to start my first job, and, one sunny lunchtime I strolled along the cliffs, watching the gulls skim over the waves, and the race forming a patch of torrid water further out.
I rounded a corner and there, in a small bay, were these two sea stacks. The largest one was Pom Pom rock.
That day there was an artist, sitting on the cliff top, his easel set up in front of him, brush in hand. He was painting the sea stacks and I paused to look. He told me about the island. He told me about the quarries. He told me about caves along the shore and where the peregrine falcons have their nest.
Over the years I have often walked this path, and the sea stacks were always there. It felt as if they always would be.
But now when I walk that way there is a gap, an empty space, and the coastline I was so familiar with is changed. It has become strange to me.
And all that remains of Pom Pom rock are a few scattered slabs, visible only when the tide is at its lowest.
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