I have a feeling last week’s Indian summer might be over. This morning I found darkness had encroached on my regular breakfast time, and my stroll into town was a murky one. The mist-blanketed beach was strewn with wrack, and largely deserted save the odd damp Labrador and gangs of shifty herring gulls, those rotten hyenas of the sea.
Then what should I see hovering on the stiff breeze but a little kestrel, hunting in the long grass above the sea defences on Whitby’s west cliff. It stayed there for ages, swooping occasionally into the vegetation but taking to the air again immediately. Eventually it pounced and stayed somewhere in the grass. Bad news for some small critter, I imagine, but it brightened my morning no end.