Last time I was here, the beach was packed with grey seals, and fluffy white pups were strewn in the dunes. It was bittersweet: amazing to see the thriving colony but painful to observe a group of people walking close to a youngster positioned on the path, as if an inconvenient traffic bollard had blocked their way. The seal looked distressed, thrashing, big-eyed.
Today, the beach is all mine. No seals and hardly any people. The seals are mainly out at sea now, although the wardens who protect the breeding colony still have plenty to do, rescuing those trapped or injured by rubbish. Perhaps worst are the seals “necklaced” by flying frisbee rings, suffering from severe lacerations.
A few carcasses of young seals decompose on the sand; babies that didn’t make it. The sky is breathtakingly blue, and the sun carries a hint of warmth before it is whipped away by an ear-chilling wind. It’s a day where I need to cry at the sea – do you ever have those? For reasons we are collectively sharing, but also for some all of my own. The dead seals make ideal companions, but a grey head pops out of the water too and watches me, the perfect comic offset to my moment of grief and fear.
I walk along the sealine towards Hemsby, shocked anew at how much and how rapidly the coast has changed. Vast chunks of land have been eaten up by the sea. Here, it is obvious that Norfolk is on the frontline of sea-level rise and climate change. We are standing on such shifting sands.
I turn inland, into the dunes knitted together with marram grass, where everything is warmer and sheltered. The gorse shines out, vivid yellow, coconut sweet, and I’m surrounded by skylarks. It’s said that “when gorse is in bloom, ’tis the season for kissing”, the in-joke being that gorse flowers most of the year. There are at least a dozen skylarks, all foolish and giddy, swooping and frolicking in pairs or threes. One rises, helicopter-high, that scratchy bright song so full of energy.
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