A good, brisk walk between Tresaith and some other identically apportioned beach shook the cobwebs out of my head today. Right up high there were loads of butterfiles - peanutbutterflies the youngest called them - mainly painted ladies, a few red admirals, lots of those white ones with the wing-trim and a single spot, and enough others to be intriguing.
The calming influence of The Guardian Cryptic Crossword enabled me to fight my deeply-engrained anti-beach instincts for a couple of hours, but in the end I had to pull the plug on it all. No toilet, no pub, no shelter from the sun, no papershop, no benches, not even a bin to put rubbish in.
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6 years ago
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