On an early September morning the mist gathers, silently creeping, rolling over the sands without as much as a sound, while the tide remains ambivalent whether to follow.
Lookng for random marks and striking moments there are more than just footrprints to be discovered today - a castaway shoe resting on the tideline is accompanied by a blackened tube of who knows what. This solid black matches the dense black tar poured between the stones od the sea wall.
An imposing wall of stone gives it's all to hold back determined tides. The creeping nature of this dark mass is reminiscent of Cornelia Parkers latest work - casts of the empty spaces between Londons paving slabs. This wall of stone offers it's own intriguing shapes.
Meanwhile my preoccupation with blue holes momentarily gives way to empty holes, hollowed in wood which are accompanied by an ever increasing green carpet of weed. Weathered and worn by the constant wash of tides etching ever deeper lines in these solid old breakers.
Despite the breakers presence the hungry tide continues to eat away the stone, bit by bit. It is not content to be so confined. Scouring, scratching small holes revealing bare bones. It seems nothing can resist this constant harranguing and nibbling, as the ground continues to dissolve from under my feet.
And then I am completely engulfed by the morning mist, a reminder that the season is changing.