It was a beautiful day on this island off the Essex coast.
Instead of taking the fifteen minute shortcut along the roads, I opted, instead, to drop down to the coast road, and walk the thirty minutes to 'town' that way.
It was sunny, with a sea breeze which made me grateful that I'd taken my lightweight rain jacket. The breeze was enough to refresh but not chill and provided a pleasant accompaniment to my stroll. Ostensibly I was going shopping for lunch, in reality I was walking out in the delightful May weather.
It really is an oyster island. The 'mother of pearl' discards were heaped, and the area around various oyster sheds littered with the unwanted shells. I'm a newbie here, so I'm still fascinated about oysters, not to eat but the mere suggestion of their history here dating back to the Roman times, and before.
Because I'd lived in the vicinity for fifty plus years before scampering around Asia, it was inevitable that I'd meet someone I knew in a previous life, sooner or later. And today I did.
James and I were at Art School together, back at the tail end of the 1970s. Although I had followed his career from afar we'd not met for exactly forty years. He, as well as being an artist, developed both a gallery and an Art Cafe (another smaller gallery tripling as a delicatessen and bistro) on the island.
James was busy taking delivery of copious small trees to enhance his business exteriors, and I, well, I was busy doing nothing (as Bing Crosby once sang).
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