“Little white bird… little white bird…” I’ve been humming and singing in my head ever since Chris pointed out the bird down at the seafront a little earlier and sang those words to the tune of Little White Bull. (Click on the link below if you don’t know it.)

Mix – Tommy Steele – Little White Bull (1959)

Anyway, like a lot of people out and about this morning I needed to get out of the house after our wet Easter weather. It was still overcast and cold as we stepped outside and walked down to the bridge by Coastguard Cottages, which leads to our famous seawall at Dawlish, Devon. I was wearing my pink ski jacket, scarf, gloves and sun glasses (just in case), and I took my fashion-accessory walking sticks that look like ski-sticks. No, I wasn’t expecting snow again but I’ve had a bad knee ever since my last visit to Dawlish Leisure Centre for Aqua-Circuits (rather like Cirque du Soleil but in water – for ladies who want to get slim and fit).

Mighty waves smashed against our famous seawall and rose up like walls of foamy water before losing form and crashing back over the seawall walkway which leads to the station and town – our intended route. We watched for a while to see other intrepid walkers survive the waves without getting too wet, then we ran the gauntlet. How exciting it was to run beside the water walls and dodge them as they descended like thrown bucket-loads of water! Don’t worry, the waves were not as big or dangerous as the ones we get during storms, We felt quite safe and risked only getting wet (hopefully). People waiting for their trains peered over the wooden railings on the station platform and watched us run through the spume and spray.

“Did you get wet?” they called down with smiles on their faces. 

“Just our feet,” we called back.

The huddle of people nodded and raised their thumbs with approval. What daring! What camaraderie! They must have thought I looked like Scott of the Antarctic!

Past the station people had gathered. Old folk, young folk, couples with young children (still Easter Holiday time perhaps), dog owners, visitors and locals – all there to enjoy the bubbling waves on an otherwise dull morning.

“Can you make it past the barrier?” asked a man with a dog as he met us coming back from the seawall on the other side of the station, which normally ends at Coryton Cove.

“No, the wall is broken and barrier secured,” we answered, “but you could go the road way and over the bridge.”

The man smiled his thanks and shook his head. His dog picked up a big stick from amongst the debris of stones and seaweed churned up by the sea and hurled onto the wall; and they retraced their steps. We wouldn’t have gone that route either.

Chris drew my attention to the dwarf wall where the brook pours out into the sea; it’s the sea side of the railway bridge and a favourite place of visitors because from there they have an excellent view of the beach but also the brook and town. On the wall was a big fat seagull and a little white dove. Chris sang, “Little white bird…” and the seagull, (who probably had better taste in music), flew off while the little white bird stayed. He even walked nonchalantly (seemingly) toward us.

“It’s the sign of peace – isn’t it?” I said.

Then the sun came out and we walked home on the new footpath by the main road. I felt a bit peculiar in my ski jacket, sun-glasses, scarf, gloves and German-style walking sticks that look like ski sticks. I hope no-one recognised me. I expect people thought I was a German visitor.

I wish Chris hadn’t sung “Little white bird” to the tune of Little White Bull… I can’t get it out of my head… and I never even liked the song.