At one end, the embrace of a sheltering headland; at your feet, sprawling, the compact sand, riven with channels and grooves; the pebbles of all colours, and even steps. Ahead, the mouth of a water course disgorging slowly and spreading. The North Sea lacks the airy recklessness of the Atlantic of my home, but it does have a cultured look, in the sense of much walked and used and managed; in the sense that the fight has always been on and the sea, though inevitably the winner, is not left to its leisure. So many momentous comings and goings have been seen from these headlands, and yet it all passes as if nothing mattered. Runswick, Whitby, Staithes, are all dots on a wondrous map. The sea comes and goes and returns and retreats and I see that as the folding of a petal on another. The marches of fishing and playing, running, boating and swimming leave their trail in the sand and the rains and weather scour the place of debris and oily pools. The clouds reflect on the calm surface and the sun glints diamonds on the rough surf. And the sea beckons and calls and leaves behind jewels and cloaks of mysterious purity.
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