Brent geese caw in flocks off-shore, as I hit the sand with furry chops. It's barely five minutes' walk from my house, but the beach is like another world as the tide ebbs and reveals its surreal rock-scape.
Winter storms have taken a big bite out of the cliffs, strewing shed-sized boulders at their feet. What strikes me is how much sand has gone, meaning bits which were barely three or four feet deep at high tide last summer must now be twice that.
The old wreck's still there, but the tides have moved her keel and popped the rivets from her plates in places. I wonder how many winters she'll survive. I also wonder what fishing my usual pike fishing haunts would be like if they emptied the water out twice a day - more or less, depending on the moon phase, earth's rotation etc - and you could have a good old wander about on the bottom without getting your feet wet.
Then I spot something even more interesting than smashed razor shells and lugworm casts. As in a bit where the winter storms have gounged an even deeper bit, a perfect avenue between the rocks to work a lure through in a month or two's time. Bass alley..?