A few weeks ago I walked my local section of the coast path. When I set out there was a thick sea fog, the lighthouse foghorn blaring through the mist. As I walked I watched the fog recede until all I could see was this eerie fog bank out at sea, ships skirting around its edge and the island peeking out from its shrouds.
I paused on the clifftop to admire the view. There was a lone tent pitched in a field and a boat moored up in the bay below.
Idyllic, I thought as I sipped my water.
And then I heard shouting.
I looked back down.
The people on the boat were all having a massive fight; voices raised and fists flying as they leaped at one another. Two bikini clad women jumped to their feet to try to break it up and I watched, fascinated, waiting for the splash.
It didn’t happen. One of them climbed onto the bow of the boat and sat in a sulk staring out to sea. The other started moving stuff around in the stern in grumpy silence.
A few other walkers had also stopped to watch and now we all headed on our way with knowing smiles to one another.
And I couldn’t help wondering what that had all been about. What was the story there?
I’ll probably never know but I’m sure I can make something up. Look out for those people in one of my stories.