First we note the smell: kelp and dead sea creatures, particularly pungent on this rare still day and late morning enough to have percolated in thin sun. Cars glisten like the water lined up like lapped waves around the shore, around the edge of the island as if this is as far as you can go by vehicle – even an all-terrain – if you want to go further you’d better have the right shoes.
My shoes of course have holes and David’s in jandals – “flip-flops” he calls them, as if he can’t stand the kiwism like he can’t stand the accent. Older couples have the right idea though, much more prepared, or prepared for something much more – worn-in hiking boots and wind-breakers, backpacks filled with water bottles probably, maybe an apple each and a spare pair of socks.
Rocks are rounded but we can feel each one under foot. We take the less steep side up, plan to follow the ridge back but slight slip – edge slowly back down. The café does not impress so we press on, end up in Kelburn, goose-bumped but well-dressed for long back, flat white a section of Sunday paper.
More Flash Fiction at the Tuesday Poem hub