Walking Bryher

           Recharged with a minted pea and goats cheese ciabatta I enjoy the view from Hell Bay's terrace watching the swallows dart, flirting with the currents of air. Three white swans paddle incongruously on a briny pool, buffeted sideways by a determined sea breeze affecting the usual calm composure and making them look slightly flustered. I finish my drink and watch as the finches gather to stake a claim on any crumb I may have dropped. It is tempting to leave the biscotti for them but this sort of behaviour is firmly discouraged: years of tourist generosity has turned them into a menace, however appealing.
          Time to move on, first to the horseshoe of sand at the far side of the pool a bay of glinting ruffles in the afternoon sun. It is far too inviting to ignore and I give in to my desire to remove my shoes and feel the abrasive grittiness of granite seed sand beneath my feet. I will have silica sparkles painted on my skin, walk with the silvered shimmer of a goddess for the afternoon.
A bright orange shell catches my eye, it's tiny curl disappearing to nothing. I pick it up. It will be the first of many such treasures no doubt, squirrelled away in the seam of my pocket to be rediscovered and bring me back to this moment, a time machine.
           I carefully clamber over the sun bleached rounded pebbles at the back of the beach and over the shallow dune dotted with daisies and sea pinks and look back at the arc of beach as I rub the sand from my toes. Shoes on I check my cap is secure before heading out of the sheltered bay and up onto the moorland heather. Once there my footfalls bounce on the peaty ground as I glance periodically over the rocks towards the sea, hoping for a glimpse of seal. They are in pup and I have heard their rough bark of labour coming from the rocky outcrops but they are wise enough to stay away from beaches populated by humans and their dogs. This is a precarious time for them, giving birth, keeping their small pups safe, no time for careless sunbathing . I am always hopeful though that I may see a sleek head eyeing me as it bobs back and forth, up and down in the rocking sea. I have been known to stand quite entranced for five or ten minutes , quite convinced that I have spied a seal, waiting for him to turn and slide away between the waves before I realise it was a boulder all along.
The seagulls glide and cry over the rocks, bickering over their right to a favourite perch but it gives me great joy to see three dumpy,  ungainly shapes flying low to the sea and then disappearing behind a rocky headland. Puffins are the clowns of the air, their faces painted with gaudy colours but do not be fooled, they are masters of the dive and catch. A shag, fresh from its own fishing trip stands sentinel on a rock hanging its wings out to dry.
               My time well spent I turn inland to cross towards the channel and catch the boat home. The water is high and I must make it back to the church quay for my ride back. I make one last stop at a small green painted kiosk. A local farmer selling his produce by the farm. He has too many demands to be waiting here but I choose some tomatoes and a courgette and place the money in the honesty box. What happiness to know that I can feast on Island produce bought at source, crab from the sea and sun warmed veg' straight from the earth. I arrive at the quay in time to marvel at the mass of water that has reappeared since the low tide.  Where I had walked on dry sand the water is now over five metres deep and there is only one way home.