Rippled waters lap sleeping boats in early evening lullaby; as the tide trickles through the creek, slowly raising hulls from muddied beds.
Plovers come to peck at worms wetly burrowed in brackish mud; daintily balancing, backs to the breeze, intent upon their feast.
A curlew calls, hidden between raised banks of scrub; its voice carried on the wind so we who hear cannot tell wherein it truly lies.
We cross the wooden bridge, pausing to watch the water carried over stones; and a crab, lured to baited line, wrestling with a proffered snack.
Then up onto the spit, over pebbles smoothed by countless tides, to stare out towards the horizon.We walk towards the castle; the buffeting wind and stones slipping beneath heavy feet, making headway slow....