Nine o’clock on a winter morning. I crunched my way through sand-dunes hardened and sheened with frost, then slithered over a sheet of ice. Under the ice, pale bubbles swelled and skittered away from my tread. The tideline was a sparkling white ribbon of frozen froth, curling away into the distance. I stopped to watch oystercatchers pecking at a frozen pool. I visited a shipwreck, its timbers rimed with frost, then walked on, trying to work up some warmth.

LRB 6 October 2011 | PDF Download