A Blustery Walk Into Town

I took Olga out on the beach yesterday morning so she could get her paws wet in the North Sea -- which, of course, she declined to do. She did romp on the pebbly sand and steal a tennis ball away from a 14-month-old boxer named Nina. Fortunately, Nina's dad had a second ball in his pocket, so he gave us the stolen one, which was firmly clamped in Olga's jaws. "Merry Christmas!" he said.

I even brought tennis balls on this trip, but I didn't think to bring one out on the beach. I just assumed Olga's ball-chasing days were over. Silly me!

After that I took a long walk into town, all the way from where we're staying in Seasalter to the tip of the point, where the port of Whitstable is located -- about five miles round trip, I think. There's a public footpath that runs parallel to the beach, so that made it easy. I passed lots of brightly painted beach huts like the one above, which are all locked up tight at this time of year. I think they're used in season as changing rooms and day shelters for beachgoers, and some of them bore "For Sale" signs, so apparently they're bought and sold like real estate.

I also passed lots of derelict boats lying near the beach, including this one -- aptly named.

At the port there's a gigantic Christmas tree made of seafood traps and marker buoys.

I walked up around the boat basin and then came back through town, along the high street. Dave and I will be heading here on Christmas Eve for dinner at one of these restaurants. It will be Dave's first restaurant meal since his surgery, but he really wants to get back in the saddle, so to speak.

We will surely have some oysters, which are a Whitstable specialty!

I passed a large pub called The Peter Cushing, named for the Hammer horror and "Star Wars" actor. It looks like it used to be a theater, maybe, or something other than just a pub. Cushing lived in Whitstable for many years, including during the period when he played Grand Moff Tarkin, the ruthless commander of the Death Star.

My walk home was intense, with the gusting wind no longer at my back. It was 41º F (or 5º C) and I was pretty chilly despite three layers of clothing and a hat. After I got back I stayed inside the rest of the day, the wind buffeting the walls of the cottage.

Dave and I have been watching Netflix in the evening on the account of someone named Leo, who apparently never signed out after renting this place. I'm hesitant to sign in with our own account on a strange TV, but I wonder if we're messing up Leo's algorithm by choosing shows he might not want to see? He may be sitting at home wondering why "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" keeps popping up in his "recently watched" queue. (Consider it a recommendation from us, Leo.)

We watched a Norwegian tsunami disaster series called "La Palma" that was pretty good -- maybe not the best show for the beach -- and last night a movie thriller called "Carry-On" in which always-affable Jason Bateman gets to play a bad guy for a change.

I suppose we'll sign Leo out when we leave. He'll probably appreciate that.