It’s raining and still dark when we set off, tawny owl calls shivering from nearby woodland. My dog vanishes into night, chasing rabbits that look like little grey ghosts as they race away into thickets of bramble. Dog returns grinning, panting, mercifully rabbitless.
The footpath follows a stream into the valley but the stream’s burst its banks so it’s all one rush of muddy, leaf-clagged water and we splash in our Wellies along its course to Restronguet Creek.
By the time we reach the Creek, dawn has leeched the darkness to blurry grey and the rain is still falling.
It’s low tide. Ahead lies a vast slick of glossy mud, boats tilted on their hulls, orange buoys bright as embers in a near monochrome dawn. Underfoot, a shingle of slate shards, slippery tangles of wrack. We stand in battering wind, dripping wet. Out on the flats, curlews probe the mud with their sickle beaks and we spot a Little Egret, so luminously white that at first we think it’s a hunk of polystyrene left stranded by the receding tide.
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