Strand stroll

Sheltered, uncharacteristically, on the seaward side of the shingle spit Saturday. No sails, no bow waves at all and the breakers were flopping up and down in the lee.

The North Easterly blew all weekend, chilling when the cancelling effects of the sun were hidden, as they often were.

With more frequent sunny intervals and using the Forest's wind baffles I walked in the afternoon. Two dozen does and, chewing the cud and in repose, three bucks, their obsolete headgear like kelp arms faded to the colour of the trees they lay amongst.

In the forest we use familiar paths, pass familiar trees and waters. Some are points of pilgrimage. A sequoia which buzzed with hornets one summer (at least a dozen years since), a fallen tree whose roots are now so bony that they cast a lace pattern on the path, streams that hide fish and dragonflies by summer and run alternate crystal and mud in winter.

The car parks are weekend busy, but two hundred yards away the forest birds are beginning to find voice.