February 1996

Now back from a walk along the estuary, the Angel Marshes, which were in a steady frenzy with waves, dull grey, brightening in the sun, in battalions, moving downstream. The reeds were craning away from the wind, whirled and corkscrewed in sudden, violent twists. The pools between them were frozen into cakes of cloudy, opaque ice. Redshank, looking black and white, were jumping out from all along the edge, with cries and squeaks, to fly, with no forward movement, into the wind, then swirl away sideways. I lost the lens-cap of my camera, somehow, completely muddled by the gale and the cold, thinking that I had put it in my pocket, or it had stuck inside the camera case. But it is nowhere to be found, and, certainly, there was no chance to stop and look, and, anyway, it would have been blown far away. Then to Southwold, coffee, and, driving back, I take a stretch of the road too fast, lose all control, and we twist, first into the opposite lane, on the compacted snow, then spin right round to the left and mount the verge into a drift and the hedge, where the car stalls. The only other car on the scene, following us, stops, and I see the driver agape. Completely unshaken, for some reason, I reverse out of the drift onto the road, facing back towards Southwold, nod to him as he mouths `All right?' and drive back to the ...