Bloody Norah. Just walking around John Muir Country Park, minding my own business and the Haar comes in just like that. One second all is clear, the next I couldn’t see two paces in front. Then this surfer appears. He’s going in. Clearly vision is not a key requirement for surfing. I wonder how he’ll know which way is up.

The horse first appeared as part of a pair galloping along the water’s edge. LIke something out of Tam O’ Shanter. I didn’t have my camera ready as I was too fucking scared they were going to gallop right into me. It seems, however, that horse sense can be relied upon in a fog. Later, the one above appeared on its own. Seemed to be looking for the other.

 Good Old Mackie, she’s like something out of a story-book. This is what she does while I’m taking photos. I think she’s writing poetry in her head.

But she never loses her sense of where I am. She stalks when I move.

As I reached the river the haar lifted considerably, just leaving behind wee waspy bits to make the beach look like it was steaming. Scotland never steams.

There’s an artist, or it may be many artists, who wander aboot making sculptures out of driftwood. Just for the hell of it. I love East Lothian.

This jogger geezer’s carrying a football under his arm. I saw it earlier, alone on the beach wearing an air of abandoned neglect. I hope he gives it a good home. Nothing goes to waste on the beach. Not nuffink.

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