A pebble beach. Cold wind, the waters of the fjord lapping the polished stones of the shore. A faint smell of trees hanging in the air. A crowd, gathered in expectation.
People are waiting patiently. Some carry binoculars, some have huge, paparazzi-style lenses. Dogs are nonplussed but make the most of the unexpected circumstance: plenty of chances to play with other dogs.
Then, it happens. Feet from shore, so close you can almost reach it, the black back of a dolphin emerges.
Then another, then another. Or maybe it’s the same two, who knows. But on and on they appear, apparently feeding on some underwater table of plenty.
Where could this place be? Norway? New Zealand? Vancouver Island, maybe?
– § –
Early morning after a night out camping. The sun is rising behind a knot of fluffy clouds.
The sand is an unbelievable pink, soft but firm under our feet. The water explores all the possible permutation of the blue palette, growing darker as it deepens. Seagulls squawk to one another.
We stroll up to the foreshore, eyes looking for shells left by the retreating sea.
There’s a solitary swimmer out there but, besides him, we’re alone on the beach. The wind, here in this cove, is down to a gentle whisper.
Where is this place? Could it be Bermuda, Sardinia, Easter Island?
– § –
Both beaches are in the same region: the Scottish Highlands.