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28

At low tide Kimberley and I walked along the beach to Oxham, the next coastal village on from Oxmarket.

It was a grey morning.  The mist still lingering inland, but at the edge of the sea, the air was cold and clear.  It was hard going, walking along pebble and rocks encrusted with tiny, sharp mussel shells.

Eventually, we sat down for breakfast at the Inn by the Sea where the bacon and eggs were excellent, the coffee not so good, but passable and boiling hot.

          “I don’t know,” I said, stretching myself backward.  “I believe I could manage another egg and perhaps a rasher or two of bacon.  What about you, darling?”

          Kimberley shook her head vigorously.  “Good God, no,” she exclaimed, patting her perfectly flat stomach.  “I’m absolutely stuffed.”

         

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