Waves crash on the shore, sucking pebbles rolling into the depths. Salt foam fizzes on the sand tugging at caramel seaweed. Huge beams of wood are washed up with tree stumps and fish crates. Somewhere, far north perhaps, the sea is hard against a stretch of forest. Coarse dune grass holds the sands here, so nature fights nature, but the man-made defence is losing the battle.
In just a year since we’ve been to this beach a crescent of car park, where dog walkers rest and salesman scoff chips, has gone. The sea has taken a huge bite. Tarmac has been gobbled, and the hardcore beneath. Posts have been sucked out, rocks rolled like marbles.
Today the sea is gentle, but the car park tells a different story about winter. The castle, has watched over these links since the 1500s and witnessed countless storms.
Ravenscraig is busy in the day with walkers and fishermen, joggers and the lonely. At night, headlights sweep in and out till the small hours. ‘Dogging’ someone whispers. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s a wonderful spot whatever your pleasure.