Blow by blow

Once the rain began, no-one else fancied the walk, so I chose the coast. Where could be more beautiful on a damp and windy February? I drove to the sailing club, to walk the estuary there.

Low tide I was expecting, but there was more mud than I had thought and the boats, although all pointing to windward, were not playing in the wind but nestling in the soft ooze, curlews and oyster-catchers at their rails.

The flooded meadow's flock had made inland to escape the blow, but the next field up held a thousand or two of huddled geese, slowly beaking away at the rough grass that appeared to be their only shelter. A few folk were out braving the elements and as is the way in such weather, we all exchanged mad grins.

Across the stream by bridge and over the spit to meet the full force of the South-Westerly. I ventured over the tide-line - all cuttle bone and wrack, to the slope of the shingle specked today by foam and slammed by the waves driven by gale and tide.

I turned South-East, out along the spit, to enjoy the full force of nature. My feet crunched against the loud wash of waves, the hiss of stones and, when my hood was blown hard against my ear, the percussive ping of rain drops driven into the fabric.

Walking out I took the roughest route, deep shingle and the strongest wind. Occasional respite came from crossing the spit track to gaze over the lake there, where the ridge lifted wind came back down before deciding which way to proceed. At the deepest point of the lake, the moored boats bobbed against their restraints.

For a variety of reasons I had never walked the entire length of the spit (about a mile and a quarter) and, once I had passed my previous best I half decided that today was the right day to do it. I wondered about the wisdom as the castle drew closer. I appeared to be the last person out there and, after fighting the wind and the shingle my legs felt like someone else was in control.

Out to sea the Needles lighthouse was visible in the misty rain and I could see the line of breakers as the seas were forced over the Shingles Bank. Walking the front of the castle for the first time I went far enough to cross the transit of two buoys, North and East Shingles I would guess without a chart to hand.

A few minutes in shelter, a photo and I turned back, lest the rain worsen. I followed the much used path at the lee side of the spit and, other than a span of muddy weed and some loose shingle it was far easier than the path out, although the sounds of high seas just a few yards away were ever present.

The final stretch on the sea wall back to the car allowed the rain to begin to seep through my jeans and I'm sure that as soon as I got into shelter, the rain redoubled its efforts. The light was softening over the estuary's returning waters before I drove home.