He had been amongst those who had torn down the nets the council put up some years ago to stop the birds nesting. Contributing to erosion, so they claimed! There was a whole ocean to hold back, but they opted to stop the half-ounce birds.

How long ago was that, he asked himself. Thirty something years? I was Leo’s age, back then.

David came up what the sea had left of the steps. The tidal defence panels to either side were bleached grey, had the compact, matted look he imagined the pelt of a seal must have. That they were moulded from re-formed blades of decommissioned wind turbines seemed right.

First, he thought, a myopic attempt to harness Nature, now a hopeful bid to hold her back. Let’s see how that goes. Some things you can stop, he thought, other things you can’t.

He turned a final time to nod to the beach. Remains of other buildings showed strewn through the sand. And as he looked out over the flat sea, he saw the flash at the horizon. The limpets clickety-clacked as he set down the bag and unbuttoned his pocket for the binoculars.

‘Well, look at that,’ he said out loud. He’d seen the bergs go by a few times now, and every time felt the same gentle shock as seeing the inside of a shell.

There on the horizon, a trio of tiny boats, and behind them, towed, an iceberg,

Of all the things, he thought. They must have brought that through the storm.

He’d promised himself he’d go and see the Dock a few hours up the coast but hadn’t yet. Wouldn’t now. Instead he’d traded in the promise. Don’t let this thing get the better of you until you see the giant city berg go by, when finally it does. Imagine the size that one will be! They’ll need a fleet of tugs . . .

There is a magnificence to the idea, he thinks. They’re breaking from the ice cap anyway. Why let them melt into the sea?

Like limpets, they’re a ready crop. With a bit of effort.

David emptied the bright bag into the dry old sink and turned off the radio. Helen did not like quiet. At least, did not like quiet when she was alone in the house.

If he’d been out, he could follow her through the rooms she’d been in, clicking off the radios the same way they used to follow the kids as toddlers, picking up the toys they’d dropped. He chided her fondly.

Decades ago he’d brought her music, on Compact Discs. Something you could actually hold, give. ‘It’s not the same,’ she’d said. ‘It makes me have to choose what I want to listen to. Anyway. It’s the talking. I like the talking.’ She was fine with quiet when he was there.