Willow is attempting to open the front curtains by herself, so I help her achieve that, pour some coffee into my flask, grab my waterproof and step out. As Billy Connolly once said, 'There's no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes.'
There's a consistency and flow to the tides that I find comforting. On rough water days there's a constant sound of rushing water that's hypnotic. It's that I focus on now as I march up the beach, my muscles getting a bit of a wake up call.
By the time I've done the bathroom thing, put the kettle on and opened the curtains in the front, the sky is just beginning to lighten. I see one torch on the beach, likely an early dog walker. I get it; when I'm meditating to the sunrise I feel like I'm the only one out there. It feels like the…
In this reverie I calculate I've walked at a good pace for twenty minutes or so. I'm at the fluffy sand and appear to have caught up with the white poodle, who's now plastered in sand and chomping on a stick which has some seaweed hanging from it.
Always loved chamomile, probably on account of the fact that I used to eat daisies as a kid. Pick the petals off and eat the yellow bit. I still would today, if I found the right daisy.
While I'm pouring my coffee and screwing the lid on I then wonder whether my Chromebook is shower-proof. 'I'd expect so, most laptop keyboards are mounted on a kind of membrane aren't they?' my recently retired tech brain started whirring. 'You're not going to type a thousand words in the rain, are you?'