A mile or so on an empty beach, in the shelter of the dunes.
Retracing our steps as the tide turns and day becomes dusk.
27th: BURNHAM NORTON
Along the raised bank between marshes and reed beds, heading seawards.
Two kinds of windmill; no wind. Pink-feet, Brent geese, the air filled with their chunter.
Turning at the last corner, we slither through mud to complete the circle.
Pastel skies. Cold gusts. Out along East Bank, its new red surface slick with wet.
The wind behind us on the shingle; creamy surf nibbles at my ankles.
Driving home, roadsides piled with beets.
Late afternoon, as far as the beach and back.
A curlew wheels. Redshank potter. Distant avocet hinge and dip.
The thin whistling of teal; honking grey-lags lumber into formation.
Long shadows, golden light.
A morning walk: pale sun, rough wind; heavy rain promised later.
Back Lane, Cuckoo Hill Road, the Snettisham Road as far as the windmill
Then track, fieldside, back up Dersingham Lane.
Bare trees black against a mottled sky.
31st: BURNHAM OVERY STAITHE
Almost cloudless, the sky rinsed clean to duck-egg blue.
One in the procession of dogs and their walkers, setting out towards Holkham Gap.
The sea a midnight stripe beyond the dunes.
Boats jangle lazily in the harbour; geese whirr and burble in adjacent fields.