Among the regular walkers by the edge of the sea this morning is a woman in a swimsuit and a straw hat. Everyday it is the same. To and fro from one end of the gently curving, sandy beach to the other - 350 meters perhaps - the walkers perform their daily ritual, to which they often add personal variations. This woman, plump but not fat, wobbling no more beneath her costume than the accretions of years, allow for, walks without affectation except that every few steps she shoots one arm up in the air bringing her hand down on to the crown of her hat, then a few steps later does the same with the other arm. She might be waving to somebody or to several people except that her eyes are fixed directly in front of her. I count the number of steps she takes between arm movements, and from their irregular variations conclude that she is no manic obsessive, though I can´t help wondering if, for taking the trouble to count, perhaps I am.
Again this morning before breakfast the sun makes a golden path in the sea which I follow as I swim. I turn and swim on my back kicking up golden sparks leaving the sun´s path behind me. I feel as the song used to go, like a puppet on a string.
After the beach cleaners this morning comes a man with a metal detector searching for buried treasure or lost coins or perhaps memories.