Blue sky, blends into blue sea. The two separated by the mauve smudge, of the Isle of Wight, on the horizon. Breton striped beach huts stand, on sun drenched shingle, too hot for bare feet to tread.
I am on the southern tip of Hayling Island, West Town, where it meets the sea. Dividing Langstone Harbour, to the west, from Chichester, to the east.
The aroma of barbecues hangs in the still air. Wafting over, from the ranks of camper vans, which line the shore, up in the dunes. A base for aquatic escapades.
A paddle boarder is strafed, by a self propelled surf board, which its owner, doggedly, strives to master. Mostly, it hauls him through the water, in a prone position. But, from time to time, it permits him to stand upright, before, mischievously, accelerating away, from under his flailing feet. An exhausting skill to master.
I treat myself to a double scoop, of honeycomb ice cream, with chocolate flake, to ward off the midday sun.
It has been a warm walk, up from the Royal Oak, at Langstone.
Where a Hurley, called Sparrow, lies moored. Patiently waiting, for her mast to be stepped, and her next season, of sailing adventures, to be begin.
Up along the western shore, of Hayling Island, I walk.
Looking out, over Langstone Harbour, to Portsmouth, with its Spinnaker Tower, shimmering, like a desert mirage, in the heat haze.
Past fledgling windsurfers, hatching on the beach.
And paddle boarders, gleefully preparing, for their day afloat.
LOL.. fame at last... she looks like a boat today.. three old men convened yesterday and got her mast up unscathed, and then watched the world go by from the cockpit with beers and pork pies.. glorious day..
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