"It's beautiful," she said, squeezing his hand in anticipation and yearning. A yearning to explore this vast landscape of sun-blasted pebbles.
Trudging steadily across the sheet of stones was as recollective an experience she had had since her visit here. The UK was beautiful but she had longed for the vast and open vistas of her native South America.
He had said it would be a surprise and he had not disappointed. She wrapped an arm around his waist, partly to steady herself but more from a need to hold him close.
The stones had been absorbing solar heat all day and they radiated warmth. She reached down and scooped one up, smooth and round and warm as a soft boiled egg.
The shingle plain rose before them, obscuring any view beyond. They scrambled to the crest and the sea was revealed to them - sparkling - waves crisping against the shore.
They slid down the other side, hands clasped and giggling at the sheer joy of it.
The shingle bank created an acoustic barrier, insulating them from all extraneous sound except the hypnotic shushing of the waves.
She takes it all in, eyes skimming across this ageless panorama of glittering horizons and shingle coast, enveloping her in its geological embrace.
Looking down at the shingle she recognises chalcedony, chert, quartz, jasper and the unmistakable glow of carnelian. A blanket of ancient energy, forged in primeval volcanic floes and eons of sedimentary accretion.
She looks at him now, tanned and fit, eyes like flint in the sun, his wetsuit revealing that he is already aroused, his beard sparkling with salt spray.
"Lay down," he says.
