All day I was itching to escape and visit the sea. Made it at about 4.15, and we sat in the car park and admired the ponderous clay-filled rollers as they took the storm beach in their stride and battered the base of the cliff. Then a squall came over, black as the inside of your hat and full of ice:
As the car rocked and rolled I felt more secure for having my companion as added ballast against the violence outside. The hail reduced itself to huge splots of rain, driven horizontally along the glass:
We did not leave our small glass and tin cubicle, watching with some horror as a couple of dog-walkers headed off towards the incoming blackness of the next onslaught. What were they thinking? A few minutes later the second squall caught us on the road home.