It's a rare day when I walk on the beach and come home with empty pockets. There's always another pebble, a shell, a piece of seaglass to be found and treasured. At home there's an ever expanding collection of beach finds - for some their moment of glory is transient. Away from the the beach they suddenly don't seem quite so special. Others have stood the test of time over the years, always seemingly perfect in their own unique way - the shape, the smoothness, the chalky colour, the coolness and the tactile quality. There's nothing quite like finding a beautiful pebble, enclosing it with your fingers and exploring it's shape and texture.
Some sit so perfectly in your hand you don't want to put them down. I found this beauty the other day.
And it wasn't until I brought it home, cradled in my fingers, that I realized how special it was. Not the usual pebble/egg shape I usually collect, but altogether more organic and fluid. It sits perfectly in the contours of my hand, begging to be touched and stroked, the cool slatey blackness absorbing the warmth of my fingers.
At the moment it's resting place is beside my bed on an oak block I use as a bedside table. I can't resist picking it up first thing in the morning and last thing at night. I wonder about the journey it's travelled, the tumbling it's taken in the sea, to wear its contours so smooth. This one's here to stay.