At the weekend I went to West Wittering for the first time and it was packed. I’d hoped a grey February Sunday wouldn’t be too busy, but there were huge groups of people all over the wide expanse of sand. I turned right, towards East Head, which I hoped would be quieter. The tide was on its way in but still low, leaving a huge sand flat exposed. I walked past wooden groynes tall and surreal as sculptures and went down, away from the loose dunes and out to the waters edge.
It was shallow, fluttering with foam on the edge of each incoming wave. I stood out on the end of a sand spit, my socks wet from a hole in the seam of my boots, and listened to the competing wash as water came in from two angles. With my eyes closed, it sounded like a river running. I followed the tideline inland, along the edge of the estuary. It was grey but in the distance I could see blue shaded hills, the south downs through the clouds. A small black-headed gull, only a meter away, hovered above the water then dove, digging something out with its beak. It hovered and dove again and again. I watched it till it flew away. The sand was sinky, half made of water, until I reached a shingle headland and rounded it on a steep slope. There, the water was deeper, a clear washy green. On the sand I saw prints that I thought were seaweed swirls, but may have been half washed away footprints.
There were 4 swans floating in the stream. On this, the inland side of the headland, there was marsh, brown and scrubby, patterned with lime green moss and deep dark pools. The sand by the water’s edge here was slippery and I moved back, to the foot of the dunes, and followed their curve back to the car.
Bonnie Radcliffe 