Summer on the shore is fraught but winter wandering is a tonic for mind and lungs
‘COME on, Pooch, time for a walk.’ One of the wonderful plus points of Our Town is its location just a short spin from Our Strand. In summertime, whenever the good weather threatens to break out, the road from Town to Strand is chock-a-block with traffic. On fine weekends, there is scarcely a parking spot to be had anywhere adjacent to the seaside as locals and tourists descend.
But midweek in February there is no difficulty whatever finding a place for the old jalopy. The only obstacle delaying access to the beach is that the path through the dunes leading to the beach has been ploughed up – by horses. The gee-gees come for early morning exercise and have long vacated the scene of the crime before man with dog arrives. It must be heaven for any jockey to ride out on firm sand at low tide with the rising sun low in the sky and lighting up the ocean.
I would not begrudge them their pleasure, even when the impact of hefty hooves on the path from car park to shore leaves the going heavy underfoot for those who arrive later in the day.
The joys of winter walking by the sea on dry days are much under-rated – just remember to wrap up, pull on a few extra layers. ‘Okay, Pooch, off you go!’
And off he does indeed go, liberated from the lead which holds him back whenever we take our exercise in town or on road. In the warmer months, it might not be wise to allow our pet unfettered liberty so readily. When the bucket-and-spade brigade are out in force, he would surely pee on some unfortunate child’s sandcastle if allowed free rein. Today, however, we have the place more or less to ourselves, so there is no chance that he will take a nip out of some toddler’s fingers or pick a fight with a moody Airedale here on vacation from Dublin.
Summer at the seaside can be fraught but winter wandering is a tonic for mind and lungs. A recent convert to podcasting, I had thought to bring a set of headphones, intending to listen to a downloaded radio programme on the life cycle of the giant squid. Instead, happily, I have the more restful sound-track of the waves to massage my brain. And, though there are no giant squid to be seen – they prefer more profound waters, apparently – there are traces left by smaller denizens of the not so deep in abundance.
The debris at high water mark today includes what appear to be sponges, blobs of some primitive life form resembling bunches of soggy rice crispies. The ground crackles under my shoes as I step on countless shells. Some days, a profusion of little crabs may be washed up but this time our route is littered with the mortal remains of oysters, whelks, razor shells and mussels.
Discarded lengths of rope or hanks of netting, in strident synthetic shades of blue or green, signal that mankind stalks the adjacent waters in search of food. Indeed there are a couple of trawlers in view not so far out from where we walk. Close by, a sleek, dark cormorant is engaged in a less elaborate fishing operation. Watch him before he dives out of sight and start to count – 1, 2, 3, 4……20. He bobs up again, each time 20 seconds, give or take a couple of moments, after he disappears. Other birdlife prefer to have firm sand under their feet. Hulking great gulls take flight at the approach of The Pooch, though the arrogant flap of their wings suggests that on another day they might opt to stand and fight the pesky canine intruder. We chance upon a flock of oystercatchers on the march, launching as one into the air on group manoeuvres after their leader gives a brief chirruped command. On the ground they are predominantly black birds but as they wheel away, they reveal a dramatic blur of the perfect white of the feathers on their backs…
I have come forearmed with a tennis ball – time for a game of fetch. The Pooch races off in enthusiastic pursuit when I throw the ball and he catches his prey skilfully on the run. Then he refuses point blank return it for a repeat of the exercise, giving me a wide berth all the way back to our starting point.
He prefers to walk for a couple of kilometres with a sand covered Dunlop stuck in his gob.
Daft dog.