The sea washes up many strange gifts – even, once, a fridge-freezer

You know the saying about how a butterfly flapping its wings in Brazil can cause a typhoon in China? It can now be updated: a storm in the north Atlantic can cause pineapples in the Shetlands. Island beachcombers are finding numerous examples of the fruit washed up on their beaches, an event speculatively linked to a container ship’s loss of cargo during bad weather in 2017.

I only wish I could be there to enjoy the fruits of their labours. In six years of living on the Suffolk coast, I have learnt to only expect one thing from the great oceans of the world: surprise. It never ceases to amaze me that, from their mysterious depths, unexpected treasures, propelled by myriad currents, can appear on the most unlikely shores.

Every morning as I walk along the beach, I am on the lookout for whatever the North Sea has seen fit to deposit overnight. Doors float up regularly – indeed, tons of driftwood appear. It’s tempting to wade in and grab it, but wood that has been in the sea for any length of time needs a weightlifter to shift.

After storms, coal, from exposed beds on the sea floor, can be picked up along the high-tide line. I have a bucket full of sea coal, which emits a green sparkle when popped in the log burner.

Locals here say that, not long ago, most villagers would bring bags and wheelbarrows down to the beach to carry home their black gold. Free fuel was a gift from the sea. After one winter storm, I even found a fridge-freezer, washed upright on the sand, containing a tub of Lurpack butter (past its sell-by date).

Most mornings, we see one or two metal detectorists combing the sand dunes. Their attitude seems so different from that of the beachcombers. Heads down, uncommunicative, never looking up to take in that breathtaking sunrise or the pewter-shimmering waves, they are dogged and blinkered, just waiting for the beep. Then they crouch, scoop around a bit but, oh, the disappointment, as a mere ring-pull or bottle top is unearthed.

If only they’d been on Branscombe Beach in Devon in 2007, when containers from the cargo ship MSC Napoli washed up brand new motorbikes.

Beachcombing is so much more joyful than detecting, because it’s not calculated or competitive. Beachcombers don’t need equipment and are not disappointed if they don’t unearth a Saxon crown or a Viking belt buckle – because they’re not looking for valuables in the first place.

I’m delighted if I find a pretty pebble, a stone that looks like a smiley face or is heart-shaped. An unexpected treasure would be a semi-precious carnelian, even a piece of amber, but mostly it’s just a hagstone – one with a hole all the way through it that keeps the witches away.

Alas, these days beachcombing and beach-cleaning go hand in hand. We often find plastic trash as well as treasure. But perhaps if more people went scavenging, and learnt to appreciate the sea, we could live without dumping so much into it.

In the magical film Local Hero, Burt Lancaster’s Trump-like business tycoon arrives on the Scottish coast with plans to build an oil refinery, but soon becomes entranced by the lifestyle of a local beachcomber – spending time with him in his driftwood hut, walking the beach and learning about the sea and stars. You don’t need to find a message in a bottle to know how the story ends.