The title of this post I plundered from a poem of war. The verses took me back to days of fitful sleep on foreign beaches as helicopters choppered dead and wounded overhead.
Here's a post-surf shot from Sunday last - a very different beach in time and place. It was cold but it was lovely. The Nipper's toes turned blue, then red. They squawked and shivered like plucked fowl. I caught a few and threw away a lot more. Isn't it great to batter a sword into a ploughshare once in a while?