Sometimes, if you go down to our harbour at the right time in the evening, you can find something amazing. You can spot a seal.
Apologies to ruin the mystery. To be so direct about what lies underneath. But seals are magical enough. How astounding for something so large and physical swim towards you, close enough to touch if you fancied losing some fingers. This is a true connection with wildest nature, a heartbeat from chasing lions on the Serengeti.
One seal was enough to draw crowds from the fish and chip eaters and seaside drinkers. So when a whole pod glided between the boats, zooming like torpedoes amongst the buoys and seagulls, the evening stopped. Word spread, and the windows opened. The residents stood four deep, harmonising their oohs and aahs.
Like on most summer evenings, I had popped to the harbour for a walk when the sunset hits the temperatures of orange and red. This meant I was up the hill as the pod arrived, with a bird's view of the water.
I saw a dozen black spheres shooting for the quay. How for the first time they beached onto the cobbled streets, scattering the onlookers into football hooligans against the police. They lumbered across the cobbles, flippers scraping in panicked despair.
I saw the huge shape darken the water, already smashing the first boats into tinder. Tentacles longer than flagpoles breaking trawlers in half. Eyes with pupils larger than my car.
The harbour is full of amazing sights.
