1. The seagull lands in a nest at the top of the cliff, just a couple of metres from where Lily is grazing. It drops food in its child’s mouth then calls out a warning. The baby seagull softly mimics its squawks.
1b. Good bacon, our eggs and a wide buttered slice of a cob.
2. We walk along the cliff tops to the north of the village, along the Cleveland Way. We spy instruments in precarious places, laugh nervously about the pathway that has fallen away, and identify bits of edible greenery around our feet. When we are ready to head back, we stop to watch the waves splashing against the rocks below.
3. It turns out that cosy catastrophe/post-apocalyptic fiction is just *the best* thing to read why staying in this type of little village. I inhale a new-to-me tale – “A Wrinkle in the Skin” by John Christopher.
4. The beck is so low for most of the day that I had forgotten quite how full it gets for the hour around high tide. It reminds me of Venice – in fact the whole village does in a slightly greyer, slightly more Yorkshire way.
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