I was looking forward to tonight. Biggest tide for weeks, top of the flood around dusk - I know it's early and the sea's still cold, but it had to be worth a go. Or so I thought, until we walked down the path through the dunes and the wind hit us.
With an icy northerly blowing almost straight in our faces, I could barely heave my biggest Dexter 30 yards. While the lure was landing just beyond the breakers, it was in barely two feet of churning surf, rather than out in the promising-looking gully I found the other day. Spindrift was piling up around the high water mark. No chance whatsoever of catching anything, in other words.
We found a big chunk of rotting oak, black as peat, pitted by piddock clams. The beach was littered with the shells of razor fish, which had died in their thousands, as we crunched our way home. Cruel place, the sea.