West Pier. 10.50am. 6°C, sunny spells and no breeze. Low tide.

I slide down the steep stones onto the beach. The water is slow and heavy, flat waves on a clear green sea. A path of light glitters towards me. The air is cool in my lungs but the low sun still has some warmth for my face.

I see only two people here. A man drying off hurriedly with his towel after a swim. Another walking so close to the edge of the waves that I imagine his shoes are wet. There are no gulls to be seen.

The sky is pale and white fair-weather clouds are bubbles on the horizon line, behind the wind farm and to the east.

Here, in contrast to the hectic city centre just a short walk away, is the stillness of winter approaching.

Where I’m sitting the stones are thin and uneven, uncomfortable to sit on. There are many hag stones or pebbles with deep indentations. They are common along this part of the coastline, something to do with the motion of the sea. I find a pale translucent stone, quartz-like, with a deep hole almost all the way through. It’s beautiful and I briefly think about putting it in my pocket. Then I lay it back on the beach and take a photo instead. The tide will soon be high enough to take good care of it.

The water is getting closer. I pack up my notebook ready to leave and behind me, the giant glass viewing pod begins it’s slow ascent to the top of it’s tower. They say you can see for 40 miles on a clear day.

They won’t see this beautiful stone from up there.