The view outside at eight o’clock this morning was pretty well the same as it has been for some days now – grey, wet and windy. I can gauge the force of the wind by noting how much my neighbour’s honeysuckle bush gets blown about against a background of watery grey sky; every day recently, the leafless stalks have been shaking and waving wildly like the extra-long, super-thin arms of a Giacometti statue come to life and behaving dementedly; and each time I see them I think, “I must cut those horrible arms!”  These are the kind of days that make me think of how nice it would be to be back in Brisbane in the Spring.

And yet, there is something very exciting about living in our big house by the sea at this time of year because the October gales and high tides have arrived; the big waves crash against our sea defences, trying to force their way through granite and concrete, and sometimes succeed; and when the seawall has been breeched we can feel the impact through the foundations of our Victorian terrace, but while the fringes on our lamp shades shake with trepidation, we are not so timid…

Chris and I looked like ‘Scott of the Antarctic’ (except that my coat is pink) as we set out for a nice walk in the rain and gales this morning; even with my hood enveloping most of my head, and with the cord tied secured so that only a three inch diameter of my bare face was open to the elements, the rain, whipped up in the wind, still managed to sting  and my face smarted. We lowered our heads and made our way down to the railway bridge by Coastguard Cottages, where we met another couple of intrepid explorers, similarly dressed like Scott, and with the same tell-tale, wet red faces. We all laughed, as you do, and, without speaking, we were in accord that the seawall was impassable from that point – even the trains tiptoed past, hoping not to be spotted, and deluged, by the waves.

We took another route down to the beach. I was taking a few shots of the rough sea with my mobile phone camera when a man came along; he wore black jogging pants, an old brown ‘Scott of the Antarctic’ hooded coat (the genuine article, by the looks of it) and sandals. The man stood for a minute or so, looking very intently at the pounding waves, and then he took off his sandals and his coat.

“You’re not going in – are you?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, taking off his tee-shirt. (He was a man of few words.)

“But aren’t you afraid?” I pointed at the sea crashing into the wall.

“I do it every day,” he said.

I supposed that meant he went swimming in the sea no matter what the weather.

“May I take a photo?” I asked.

He nodded his consent but he paid me no special attention and walked straight into the raging water. Several people came along and marvelled at the man “from Atlantis”; we  agreed, behind our hoods, that he was an excellent swimmer so we moved on.  As we were leaving, a couple of self-assured young mothers decided to take their little tots for an invigorating walk along the same seawall where the waves were of a mind to frighten the pussyfooting trains.

Everything seems to involve trains this week – ever since I started reading “Atlas Shrugged”, which has a lot (1,200 pages!) to do with railways, as you know, if you’ve been reading my blog recently.