A lone wanderer on the lone and level sands stretching far away...
A leisurely start to the day on account of rain showers forecast to clear up after midday. True to the predictions, the rest of the day was sunny, with only high cirrus clouds scudding Eastward across the sky. Taking full advantage of the clement weather and the low tide, I ventured out across the mudflats, skirting around the south of the mount, past the beach where I had been the day before.
Cautioned by the large warning signs at every plausible entrance to the endless sand, which declared “Quicksand!” and “Hazardous, turn back!”, I was not sure of what progress I would make or if I would be able to completely circumnavigate the rock without getting into trouble. Taking off my shoes and squelching onwards, I found the going quite easy and the sand firmer than expected. I learnt quickly to avoid areas that had visible water on the surface (these were invariably less stable than the surrounding flats) and before long I was a kilometre or so across the sands.
Robert McFarlane in his beautiful book ‘The Old Ways’ talks about walking the Essex Broomway, a path across similar sands, revealed by the tide, to the island of Foulness. He describes how wrong it feels, how insane even, to strike out into the sea and more than once I myself had to fight the urge to turn back and run as fast as I could to something solid and rocky—though I knew full well that the next high tide would not be for hours. Eventually, I turned back to to take a picture of the castle and the shoreline in the distance, only to find tourists dotted here and there peering over the ramparts taking pictures back—not of me, I supposed, but of the bleak, alien landscape that I occupied. After wandering around more or less aimlessly for about an hour, I retraced my steps to where I hah had to throw my backpack over a creak and then leap after it, before heading for the castle—skirting northward this time and completing the circuit.
I was sitting on a sheltered rock, drying my feet in the sun (which even in January threw out some warmth when out of the wind) when I was approached by a tourist holding out her camera. I assumed instantly that she wanted her picture taken and was happy to oblige.
“This is you, I think” she declared, beaming at me. “I saw you from the ramparts.”
She showed me an image on her camera of a figure (actually more like a tiny dot) in a vast field of greyness.
“Oh... yes I think you’re right, thank you” I said stupidly, too surprised to think of anything else to say. It was only afterwards that it occurred to me that I should have asked her to send it too me.
I had a little time before I had to catch the bus, so, having crossed the causeway, I tracked across a field to see if I could take one last photo of the mount. I was following the line of a fence, minding my own business, when all at once with a swoosh and flutter of wings the air was filled with two marsh harriers in pursuit of a small bird. I stopped and watched them dive and turn all around me, faster than I could follow with my eyes. Suddenly, the harriers were still, hovering overhead. The little bird was nestled, its body pressed low to the ground, by my left foot. It struck me that the harriers might start mobbing me, but I did not dare move for fear of startling the tiny creature at my feet and sending it into the talons of its pursuers. The harriers stopped hovering and seemed to lose interest for a moment and in a flash the tiny bird was off, speeding across the field. As fast as the birds had appeared, they were gone.
Dinner: Tabouleh, stirred through with mix veg and lemon juice. A simple supper.