So now I am alone, for two weeks anyway.
I dropped Mary at the airport, and watched as she passed through the gateway beyond which non-travellers may not go.
Feeling a little like Sam Gamgee as Frodo sails at last from the Grey Havens, I wondered what to do next. Tolkien has the answer: “To the sea, to the sea! The white gulls are crying, The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying.”*
So I drove from the car park to the end of the runway and the South Coast and around Lyall Bay. The foam wasn’t exactly flying, but in the greyness of a heavily overcast day, the surfers seemed to be there more in hope than expectation. Neoprene wet suits glistened against the leaden-hued water which at first glance appeared completely devoid of surf.
Every so often a sharp crease would slide across the water, but mostly the surfers would evaluate it and let it pass by. And then a slightly bigger or better formed wave seemed to have potential and some frantic paddling would bring them up to speed.
Usually it was a short ride, and by the time they made it to the standing position, the wave was already dying on the beach.
In Evans Bay, the view of the Hutt Valley was obscured by dark clouds and a yacht provided a nice counterpoint.
I wonder what the week ahead will bring.
* J.R.R. Tolkien The Lord of the Rings