There is a squint of sun, pink, behind a curtain of clouds above the beach. It’s the imperceptible moment between afternoon and evening. The sea is brown and choppy. The tide has brought up bunches of brown seaweed. The bar girls say its from the sea, its where the baby fish live. They laugh.
It’s bizarre, the beach strewn with natural refuse when we are so used to the spread of man-made rubbish. It’s like the sea has coughed up some bloody phlegm. It’s disturbing. People remark on it. Then we pretend to ignore it. Someone says it’s the mining company dredging the seabed just around the headland from Lumley beach. The mining company strenuously denies it.
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