|Guys and their dog roaming:|
First glimpse of a bleak beach today.
I have been roaming my whole adult life. As a child I danced more than roamed, but since the dancing - and dancer - has slowed, I have roamed, a movement closer to walking but with intent, like the dance. Intent to go somewhere. I always walk with intent, even if the destination is unknown, like life itself.
|A second glimpse: a beach clearing|
I am very lucky in living close to a neat little beach, approximately one K long so just the right length for a daily walk and back. I drive the two minutes across a busy road, park at the top of the hill to get the up-hill climb on the way back, then walk down to the sea. I know that hill street like I know my own kitchen. Every house, when renovated or built, although I know none of the residents even after all these years (twenty).
|A beach (house) cleared. Three seasons in one walk.|
There are houses on the beach. I know these too. They have come and gone from batches in the 1940s, to grand houses rented for the summer in the 21st Century. The demolition of one old two-bedroom batch made the newspaper. All seemed sad to see it go.
Generally I prefer a beach without houses except in the winter evenings when the lights from the houses suggest eyes and provide reassurance to a lonely shore. Rangitoto keeps an ever-vigilant eye and warm company too, but I fear she, like a god, would not deign to intervene if intervention were required. The people in the houses just might, unless they have vacated their bodies of wood and steal for the winter, as I believe many of them do.