Easter Sunday; the clocks changed; and the sun came out.  I made for a beach early.


I had it to myself until a lone runner overtook me.  Our paths crossed again as she ran back and we nodded ceremonially.


The waves curled into the face of an opposing wind, which whipped foam away from their crests, occasionally creating a reasonable facsimile of those perfect white horses which are so seldom seen along this coast.


Not sure what this assemblage is about; I found it rather sad.


I’d not been to this particular beach since last year, and don’t know when this slide came down.  A large chunk of cliff has rafted down onto the beach, and the incoming tide prevented me walking around.  In view of recent instances of walkers having to be dug out of landslides, I did not attempt to climb over.

The stretches of sand and fine shingle had been swallowed by the waves.  I walked back strenuously over the ankle-turning cobbles of the storm beach.


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