We took the path beside the low lazy river through the marshland. The tide was low and the banks, straight and ochre, stood a foot above the flat surface. A kayaker paddled seaward and we noticed that, at the very edges, we could see the sandy bottom. A cormorant took flight and we kept walking. The cliffs, so white and tall, were visible from afar and we aimed at the gap beside them, the low path rather than the high. When we reached the mouth of the beach, the white giants were reflected in the low lakes dotting the marshland. We crunched over the shingle, up a bank, to see the sea.
It was low, rushing breakers hurrying in, and we walked away from the river that fled into the sea, toward the foot of the huge white cliffs. The shingle shifted, making every step a wobble. Between us and the sea were chalk boulders, weathered into curves and colonised by black weed. We paused and looked up, the cliffs indescribably big an ice us, hills wheeling along the white edge above. In a big hollow, the sound of the waves was echoed back, a soft but steady roar. We changed and went into the waves, into water no more than waist height but waves that broke and soaked us. Between swells we ducked and swam a few strokes, popping up to jump the coming crests. The sun was strong, glittering off the shattered white water lace around us. Looking back we could see the seven sisters fronted by foaming water.
When we got out, we weren’t cold. We saw two whelks making slow progress along the sand, long trails behind them. One had done a loop, changed his mind and turned round the other way. As we walked back through the marshes, we saw a little egret picking its way through the muddy water. The sun went behind low cloud and we could hear skylarks whirring and warbling in the bushes. Just before we left, the sun came back, low now, reflected gold in the still, marshy water.
Bonnie Radcliffe 