We live on a seagull highway, between the harbour and the beach. On a breezy day, ya-hooing, wheeling seagulls high above, hitch rides on a handy thermal, performing Jonathan Livingston moves as they make their way either to the harbour from the ocean, or the other way around. On grey, still days they make hard work of it, their demeanour distinctly grumpy, their flight more ponderous.
Yesterday it was high tide and the rushing, crashing breakers were thunderous, making any walk along the sand problematic.
I opted for a walk along John Wilson Drive; a tar sealed road that runs parallel to the beach and (even better) closed to vehicles after 3.00 p.m.
Robert was partaking in his usual after-work potter on the golf course, which I crossed to get to the beach.
On my walk back home across the Hancock Park playing fields, I was taken by the scarlet against the green effect of two brightly painted tin shelters for spectators.
As I was taking these photos I could hear a skylark over the golf course. It’s always a good day when I hear a skylark.
11th Letter In 