The sun is just now setting, and I can see from the window at my Uncle's office that the gloom is slowly gathering. The torrential rains of the past weeks washed all sorts of loose things to sea, and now they've washed back up again at the high tide line. There are mounds of driftwood; bamboo, orange-tree, bushy looking sticks, and massive logs from what must have been large trees. Kids have stacked the driftwood into crazy wig-wams of bamboo and sticks, creating a line of what looks like abandoned Native American homes along the beach. The tide-line is cluttered with sticks and stones, shells and bones, beach-glass, broken glass, crab shells, mussels, and oddly, oranges. Orange trees are all over the place here, which is faintly alarming to an East Coaster like me; oranges don't grow on trees, they obviously come from supermarkets. But they're sort of a menace to people that don't love them - once they ripen and fall, they'll spoil on the ground if they're not cleaned up. It's like citrus autumn. So the rains washed many unwanted oranges out to sea, and they've all washed back, pickled in brine and speckled with mold.
The sunset is spectacular, the day is so clear that the Channel Islands are distinct against the setting sun, dark masses stretched out across the horizon like recumbent giants, floating idly by. Sailboats with pure white triangular sails glide serenely into the harbor, and surfers are taking advantage of the last moments of light to catch that one last wave before heading home. The colors in the sky are a simple blend of oranges and pinks - none of the gaudy purples of a desert sunset, and none of the golden fire of the end of day back home in the Autumn. But its simplicity is elegant.