Low tide, early morning
The harbour empties out before seven. Boats lean in the mud, gulls argue over nothing, and the whole place smells of salt and diesel. It is the best hour of the day and almost nobody is there to see it.
Quiet Harbor
Slow notes on walking, reading and small things.
Reading list for the autumn
Fewer books, read more slowly. A collection of essays about rivers, a field guide to lichens I keep meaning to finish, and one long novel saved for the first proper storm of the season.
On keeping a notebook
Not for anything in particular. A line about the weather, a sketch of a bollard, the name of a café that closed. Most of it is useless, which is the point.