We went for a long, long walk on the beach first thing this morning (which wasn't really "first thing" because it's a Saturday, and Saturdays are entitled to start later than usual).
There had been a big thunderstorm in the night. About two o'clock. I know, because even if I'd slept through the lightning and thunder (I didn't), Fury started telling it to go away. Loudly. (It didn't change anything, the storm hung around for about an hour and then went its way, as storms do.)
The morning was damp, not raining, and surprisingly warm. The sun trying to break through, and by the time we'd driven to Smith Point, it had succeeded. We walked a long, long way eastwards along the beach, way past where the four-wheel-drives are allowed on the beach, but still didn't reach the end. The beach was narrowing, the tide approaching, and the mist descending, so we turned westwards again.
There was a tree buried in the beach. Not a big tree; a small pine, a large Christmas tree: it's bark stripped in places down to a smooth suntan. Maybe washed out of the dunes further east?
Some erosion near the fence, but the sand had built up there, too.
We saw parts of a very-large spider crab; one horseshoe crab's helmet; many large, white, scoured clam shells; some sad balloons advertising them against the fence; many small scallop shells; and a golf bag. Yep.
By the time we returned to end of the dogs-allowed part of the beach, the fog had settled in.
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