Salty seating

I went to see what the sea had seized at Newport a few miles up the coast.
The recent storms and high tides have eaten away at the sea wall and undermined cliffs and banks above the shore.
The sea's tongue has sucked and scoured and scooped and scrubbed, reaching up even to lick at the doors of the cottages that line the walkway along the harbour.
These slate seats remain intact though: they must have been here for generations. I always imagine old salts lolling in them, spitting over the wall and smoking their pipes and exchanging disparaging comments about the younger generation of fishermen and sailors, or passing rude remarks on the Victorian holiday makers exposing too much ankle as they explored the rock pools below. But in the end it was the holiday makers that took over as the artisan dwellings of the mariners all became highly desirable holiday homes - mostly standing empty now until the new season starts.

We picked some sea beet and watched the wigeon swimming just offshore.
It's best here on a quiet winter day with no visitors.