Driftwood and Debris: Good Night and Don't Have Nightmares...

Well, I went down to the beach yesterday. I was full of anticipation, in spite of the weather (it has been a touch inclement in the UK just recently), and I had a spring in my step at the thought of spending some quality time collecting shells, driftwood and debris. It works for me...

I was togged up in boots, water-proof coat and trusty (if slightly musty) old hat. Bags in hand, I set off on my hunt for all things beachy and the going was good. Lot's of lovely driftwood, a few shells, a rusty door-hinge (I know, I know) and some bits of old rope. I wasn't looking ahead so much as down, in order to avoid the driving rain, and so it was with a degree of surprise that I happened upon an old-boy fishing just a few yards in front of me. This could be good (thought I) for my blog. He looked like he'd been fishing all his life - old, weathered features, worn clothes, all the gear...a great photo opportunity? Hhhhhmmmmmm!

Herein lies the irony. The night before, I had been to a concert in Hyde Park - it was amazing! - but it finished around 10.15pm. It was dark. My family and I were headed in opposite directions and I found myself walking up a somewhat deserted Marylebone Road on my own. I felt alone and vulnerable and quickened my pace so as to reach my destination (Marylebone Station) as soon as possible. Clearly, I made it in one piece - phew! The next morning I find myself at Calshot Beach. It's deserted but I feel at peace and contented, safe and secure. If I should meet anyone on this rather drab and dreary morning they will be of like mind, glad to be alive and enjoying the sea air. We will pass the time of day, joke about the weather and then carry on with our walk...

...not the fisherman. No. This fisherman wasn't fishing for bream or bass. As I made to walk by, he stepped in my path and told me a couple of strange and inappropriate stories to do with women offering themselves to him. I smiled politely, nodded and tried to move along - each time he stepped right in front of me and began on another story. I knew this was wrong, he was wrong...the next thing he did was to gesture towards his midriff (slightly below) and, in the manner of a News of the World reporter (I suppose) I swiftly made my excuses and left...in completely the wrong direction! Take note, plan your escape!!!

So, I found myself heading up the beach in the opposite direction to all civilisation and humanity. I kept glancing back. Mercifully, the fisherman wasn't following. In fact, he appeared to be dismantling his rod and tripod. I called my husband, he called the Police, they called me (while I made my way up the very steep bank into a field that led to the beach road)...I got back to my car. I was shaky, I was sweaty (I'm sorry), I was thirsty (luckily I had a flask of coffee), I was safe...the police and I rendezvoused but, a day later, the fisherman was nowhere to be found!

Naturally, I am reliving the 'incident' in my mind again and again. I know I was feeling uber safe having survived 'scary' London the night before. This, in hindsight, was clearly a mistake. One should ALWAYS be on ones guard. Avoid potential danger through astute awareness. Don't assume the countryside is safer than the city - it isn't!