Intoxicated by the misty rain sweeping the stormy waters beyond the windows, the lure of shelter and warmth was seducing punters through the doors of the Perch in search of sustenance, caffeinated hits and free flowing gossip in the very British manner of a relaxed Sunday service.

Outside the resident birds were scavenging for scraps and survival in these dying blasts of mid-winter, while inside the vibrations were high with dogs commanding territory, booming voices pitching for airtime and random wild yelps of laughter. Meanwhile, alone in my crowded circle of solitude, I was marvelling on the journey that had brought me here.

Sipping on a flat white, stirring in endless sachets of sugar, anesthetised to the endless toing and froing, a swath of memories descended of the hard days. Of the rinse and repeat act of treading water, when a sufferers walk to the sea seemed to signal a step in the right direction, though was frequently uprooted by the ill breeze blowing along the shoreline.

And cancelling out the background noise of the Sunday punters, the clatter of cutlery and ceramic cups, and the dull throb of Wham’s jitterbug on the speakers, so I pushed through the exit doorway to nature’s own service and the wild crash of the ocean calling me towards my final destination.