I'm going to the sea, I may be some time.

A love letter to the ocean.

Four hours into a mediocre Agatha Christie adaptation, one of the characters pulled out this one liner as he headed to the beach. It made it all worth it. The dog and I have decided that this is our new away message.

We visit the same beach and it is never the same. We spend hours exploring what washed up overnight: nuggets of pottery, worn sea glass, prehistoric looking horseshoe crabs. Emma takes a cautious sniff of a dead manta ray and then leaps back, alarmed at whatever the scent conveys.

Winter storms shift vast quantities of sand, exposing fossils and sea caves and tide pools. Then another storm comes and hides it all away again. The entire topography of the beach changes and then changes again. As I walk the beach I like to think about what is buried deep beneath my feet, just waiting for the fury of a southern swell.

If the day is foggy and the wind carries the briny smell of the ocean all the way to our house, miles inland, I’ll pack a thermos of tea and a scone so I can linger even longer. Emma has learned that if she sits patiently by my side, she is likely to get bits of scone with strawberry jam and clotted cream. She keeps an eye on the seagulls and I watch the waves, both of us taking our time.