And I have missed it.
We trekked slowly over the ankle-breaking flint cobbles, which at this beach are usually an unlovely shade of orange. The sea pinks’ sprightly defiance is always a welcome sight.
Returning, the falling tide made the upper edge of sand available to us, saving our ankles at the cost of having to nip suddenly up the shingle for the seventh wave.
I indulged in a few minutes’ smugness; the jokes about the Epistle of Barnabas don’t seem to have done much harm.