When we went down to Raglan on holiday last month we went to the beach everyday.
In between swimming and sunbathing and reading my book I would always take a long walk along the water’s edge, dodging the toenipping waves and picking up and discarding shells for my daughter’s collection.
Almost everyday there would be a set of hoofprints carved into the sand, left behind by an early morning gallop, and I would picture the horse and the rider in my head, and hear the thud of the hooves and imagine the sea-scented breeze whipping the rider’s hair and the horse’s mane and tail, and wish that it could have been me, galloping that horse, on an empty beach, before everyone else came along and criss-crossed those prints.
That is really beautiful, the picture and the words.