The padlock clutched the gate, hanging there, the little wind there was having no effect on its stationary form. The ever-reliable clamber of golfers, the ping of the balls fighting against the air as the club strikes and then falls as the holder inspects the quality of his shot. The cries and songs of the birds sitting, flying, posing against the early morning sun as it captures the landscape in its all-encompassing glare.
The birds move. A new presence disturbs them from their routines, they fly and scatter as the serenity is broken. The war was about to begin. The dirty weekenders had arrived, group by group marching towards their opponent with murderous intent, weapons in hand.
Sea Buckthorn, had ravaged the land, spreading across its boarders and inhabiting the dunes that for many a year had been left undisturbed. It was in a hollow that the main battle took place with the dirties sheer numbers overcoming the lighter smaller bushes and eventually even the stronger buckthorns succumbed to the relentless bite of mattocks. The birds looked on, staying away from the conflict only occasionally would a pheasant stray close to the seen only to call in alarm as it witnessed the carnage taking place below it.
The bodies of buckthorn were strewn across the hollow only then to be piled and eventually burned, the fire removing all trace of the life that once existed in their branches. There was a brief lull in the action as the dirties took respite with sandwiches passed around as they talked about the deeds they had done that morning.
Greater deeds were yet to come, as many among the feasters talked about heading down to the shore and heading out into the Firth. Their nemesis was not only found in this area and determined to rid any dune of their plague attempts were made to reach the north side of the firth. The cold sea bit and scratched at their skin and the waves tore through their ranks as they swam and fought against its might. In the end the attempt was fruitless, though the dirties could clear the dunes of the sea buckthorn, the sea was a barrier they could not surpass. Instead they warmed themselves by the fallen foe as it burned. The flotilla of Eiders sat out in the firth gloating at the attempt, the Razorbill gave an inquisitive glance but preferred to ignore the apes.
Sun was drifting away and the dim of the evening started to creep into the hollow, the cold air now becoming dominant over what rays still penetrated the slopes. It was time to leave. The army of workers now trudging away silent, their tools underarm. The deer would stop to watch the curious march of this group as it made its way back to the vehicles that brought them in the first place. Aberlady was once again quiet, the golfers long gone home for tea, the low call of the sea as it broke upon the rocks sending spray up into the air, the whisper of the once excitable birds fell lightly upon the ears of the shyer wildlife that inhabited the dunes and the maze of thorns. They looked out, sniffed the air and realised something had changed.
By Gareth Powell