Overnight winds had been powerful enough to blow this planted up stone urn off its pedestal.
Early this morning Jackie drove me to our G.P. surgery at Milford on Sea to order a repeat prescription.
We were not surprised to learn on BBC News that, at 79 m.p.h., the strongest gusts in Britain had rushed through The Needles which still seemed borne on a bed of spray as we passed them. Our home is in a direct line from these rocks, and always shares their buffeting.
The foaming waves of the Solent rolled rapidly towards our coastline, flinging ragged curtains of ocean droplets skyward. A motorboat speeding across the surface, despite its rapid rate, seemed to be bobbing up and down as it appeared to be engulfed.
Gulls reflected in pools in the car parks.
Masts at the Yacht Club stood against the sky at Keyhaven, where a group of walkers of the third age passed a younger woman with a dog.
We continued along the coast road towards Hurst Spit on and around which walkers strode beneath a fretwork of cotton clouds and streaking jet trails.
As we approached the bridge over the stream we became aware of a frenzied, shrieking, squabble of seagulls. What, we wondered, had provoked this activity?
A gentleman carefully placing muzzles on his pair of Dalmatians had spotted the answer.
He wasn’t prepared to risk a conflict between his dogs and the swans being fed from the bridge.
A string of Brent geese had found their own food in a field opposite.
Outside Solent Grange a store of stone sculptures awaited installation on the so pretentious walls.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s comforting cottage pie; crunchy carrots of virus hues; tender runner beans and cabbage.