The icy gale ruddied my face, the salt spray embedding. None of this mattered to Harris, he was oblivious. Following his nose there were a plethora of smells to investigate. Each patch of rotting, pungent seaweed, heightened his excitement at being outside.

The shape-shifting light revealed and then hid beneath the cloak of clouds, the undulating surf-front markings striking diagonally across the scene. The moments of brightness belied the enveloping greyness like fleeting clarity in the otherwise constant quagmire of depression.

Screeching seagulls severed the silence, along with the cresting waves and tympanic typhoon. Carefree and with tongue lolling laughably, Harris half-heartedly chased down the wily seagulls, too familiar to let a lolloping lupus get near them. They settled once more with their even spacing, as if respecting each others personal space and foraging area.

Lifted by the brain-clearing tempest, I take off my hat to give it greater access to the persistent fog beneath. The departing stress removes my footwear and I breathe out an aching sigh of relaxation as the moist sand caresses my soul through my feet. Every grain massages my plantar temples and with eyes closed, I exalt in the experience of the sand cupping my every step. Enhanced by sightlessness, the algal stench, sodic spray and damp demeanour of the beach, flood my olfactory passages and wash wave-like over my tongue and throat in a salty, gritty reminiscence of childhood beach picnics.

With sight restored, Harris greets me in a shower of sea and sand and we continue our exquisite journey in this layered land.