A game of beach boules is under way, upon a narrowing strip of sand.
Madame's silver balls fly consistently straighter and truer, than Monsieur's.
Despite his running commentary of distracting remarks.
Meanwhile, the tide is marching in.
Sending a flock of oystercatchers scurrying, amid a chorus of piercing, 'peeping,' cries of protest.
Leaving a lone egret, to stalk the rock pools. Before any tasty morsels, which they may harbour, make good an escape to seaward.
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