An early morning ramble over the headland of Jack Scout as the dawn mists disintegrated into the clarified air. Late summer blooms dotted the drying grass stems. Old Man’s Beard draped the freshly berried Hawthorns, unshaven, unkempt, damp with dew.
The ebbing tide clunked and clamoured through the rocky channels, mechanical voices in a preternatural landscape. In the distance the darkly green outline of Warton Crag delineated the many layered middle distances as the sun burst from the clearing clouds. Engoldened, the flats of Warton Sands rippled into life.