Toby-dog and I go to the beach.  The tide is way out.  The sea is a deep blue.  The curl and collapse of the waves is a glittering wall of diamond and sea glass.

Toby sniffs, interested, at piles of plastic rubbish, then pees on them decisively.

We’re both fascinated by the hundreds of shells that encrust an old log washed up high on the shore.  The shells are indigo-purple and polished to a shine, each one tied to the log by its own individual ribbon of brown seaweed.  They’re so decorative, they could’ve come straight from the Accessorize window display.  I run my hand over them, against the grain, and they tinkle like pistachio shells.

Up at the base of the dunes, Toby finds dead birds to roll in.  Further along, we find a single dead puffin.  Its beak is stunningly pretty, an etsy-esque confection.  It lies marooned in a display case of rotting flesh, feather, sinew and bone.