It’s two hours to high tide, and the beach has been reduced to a half moon of smooth sand. The sea is grey, grey-blue and green, and even here in the estuary it’s lined with ragged swell. Winter swimmers in trunks and swimming costumes are wading in, hunching their bare shoulders.
Without much sand to run on, my four-year-old, Nina, decides we’re playing mountain goats on the boulders at the back of the beach. They are a jumble of awkward shapes and irregular angles: sometimes I have to hold a hand – sorry, hoof – but mostly she finds her own balance. A rock pipit (Anthus petrosus) seeps at us then flutters away. Nina bleats at it. A wren (Troglodytes troglodytes) whirrs away into a crevice, a tiny ball of fox-red feathers. Nina bleats again.
