Water shines off the rocks like milk. The seals tip up their heads and tails in yoga pose. A riot of white-topped wavelets run and, inch by salted inch, the causeway falls how many fathoms deep? The dryshod hours are all behind us now, and we are stranded.
Near the horizon, many-masted trawlers go about their fishy business. On the landward side, the people bustle to and fro. The sea has not deceived them. All we can do is wait it out, here on the seaward side, impatient for the turning of the tide. Judi Sutherland