During my walk along the estuary this morning I stopped to speak with an elderly couple and their friend, a tough-looking character with a shark tattooed on his neck. As they seemed to know no English we conversed in French, though they had such strong Russian accents I could barely make out what they were saying. They were sitting on deck chairs gazing out across the mudflats and were, if I understood correctly, comparing the view to beaches they knew in various parts of the world. Turquoise Bay in Australia was mentioned, and Varadero Beach in Cuba. They were unimpressed with our estuary and were expressing themselves on the subject with typical Russian candour. A large sausage was circulating between them, each person taking a turn to cut a slice, which they washed down with generous shots from a bottle of vodka. A squat fishing boat surrounded by gulls was chugging upriver, heading for the nearby quay. ‘C’est jolie, n’est pa?’ I said, drawing their attention to this picturesque sight, but the Russian party simply shrugged and continued their conversation. They were airing their incredulity at the absence of lifeguards. A few hours later I saw the couple’s friend down near the jetty. He was staring disconsolately at the water lapping the timbers, a surfboard under his arm.
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Simon Collings
Picture Nick Victor
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