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| They left the house. It was 1854. Cars had gone. A horse-drawn carriage trundled up the street. Beach Buoy closed the door and tried again. It was 18-54 Cars were clean, as was a neighbour's power-washed drive. Beach Buoy could already feel that there was a pleasant breeze coming from the direction of the sea. The breeze was gorgeous down by the sea. A mother and child played down at the water's edge; bucket and spade in hand. |
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| Beach Buoy switched off and just enjoyed the walk with a Dog and the Water's edge for company. They delayed the dune visit as a couple were beach-combing intently, directly in front of the stack. They headed to North Gare Corner. The Skylarks came into earshot. |
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| A hazy cloud drifted around the sun. The light changed. Beach Buoy and Stubborn Dog headed to North Gare Corner. He searched the shingle that lay among the rocks. Three ladies followed behind doing the same. A man stood barefoot, ankle-deep in the sea, beside the Pier. He looked like he was dissolving the shackles of lockdown. His bicycle laid nearby on one of the World War two anti- tank blocks. Beach Buoy sat down in front of the dune bank that the Sand Martins had made home. The lovely little birds put on a stunning aerial display. Beach Buoy soaked it all up. Bliss. |
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| They headed back, passing scatterings of sea coal. Like some sort of sea-coal tartan. On the way back they paused and looked out to sea. Beach Buoy savoured the moment. The sea, the sky and the breeze were perfect. If you could pick somewhere to spend you last few moments on earth, for Beach Buoy this would be it. Almost perfect. Beach Buoy. |
