On Friday evening, Tony and I went down to the sea to walk along the promenade in the breeze as the sun was going down. The sea always brings joy to the soul, its life and power is so clear to feel, and the strength of its rhythm as wave after wave rolls in to the shingle shore.
Plus the prom is flat, and Tony's walking isn't so good these days, so it means we can have a stroll of enough length to stop our muscles turning to custard, without the added challenge of the hills that are everywhere in this coastal town.
We parked the car in the usual place (free parking there — yay!) then sauntered along as far as the spot where there's a natural end to that particular stretch, and the path slopes upward to the Next Bit. A convenient concrete planter offers a finish line and we slap our hands on it in triumph, then turn round to potter back to the car.
At this convergence of ways where we turn, another path comes up from the lower level by the actual beach, and on that evening a man was coming up it with his dog, just ahead of us.
The man was wearing tracksuit trousers, but with nothing on his top half. He was bronzed and muscular, very lean and fit, clearly someone who worked out plenty. His arms were decorated with old tattoos. His face was firm — not hard exactly but you wouldn't bother picking a fight with him. His hair was shaved right up the sides of his head, with a Mohican crest left running along the whole of the top down to the nape of his neck.
His dog went with him rather well. It was a bull mastiff, white with random buff-coloured blotches, just as muscular and uncompromising in appearance as the man, with that lounging, rolling gait mastiffs have, swaggering alongside him up the path from the beach.
And then they reached the top.
The man bent down towards the dog, who came to see what was required. He reached for the dog's collar to attach the leash he held ready, saying gently and quietly, "You need to have this on now, because of the busy road."
❤️
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