Yesterday the the frosty Atlantic whipped itself into an eerily silent, frothy fury and sent massive waves of foam over the railings on the promenade. It was a most incredible sight. Viscous waves folding over themselves, as if beaten by a giant chef’s hand, rushing to the wall and exploding onto land.
Hordes of people gathered to watch, the icy cold winds slapping their faces, already red with delight, to a ruddiness seen only after a hot summer’s day on the beach. Specks of foam being whipped up into the air, into our mouths and eyes, leaving a salty taste on our lips and a rather sickly looking green stain on our clothes. A small girl dressed in pink had the best idea: she just sat down in the mucky foam and covered herself, head to toe, shrieking with laughter.
Our ever-vigilant police force – well, a lone force in his car – arrived and asked everyone to leave the promenade, keeping us safe and ruining our fun.
Grateful to not be out at sea I, like the little girl in pink, headed home to a hot bath, feeling exilharated and at least a decade younger.