Picked up a take-out hot chocolate for my brek and was just conveying it mouthwards, perched on this jetty, when the dog tripped over, barged into my back and half of it ended up in my lap. Thanks, dog.
A great place to sit and muse.
As I was strolling along the sea wall just after dark last night, listening to the last noisy settlings-down of the birds - among them a loud outburst from some geese (greylags, I imagine, since the Brent geese don't usually start arriving until October) - I was reminded of my WildGoosefest last October. Which all seems mildly obsessive, looking back on it, but evidence of the ability of these birds - their wild, free spirit and their extraordinary journeys - to dig deep into the consciousness.
I'm ashamed to say that I never did finish William Feines' The Snow Geese last year. I must retrieve it from the lower slopes of the TBR mountain and reinstate it nearer the top. In the meantime, the uniform greyness of sky and sea these last couple of days has inspired me to reach again for Paul Gallicoe's The Snow Goose - one of the hardy marshland perennials in the bedside bookshelf - to accompany my weekend perambulations at the other end of the island.