Beach hikes are the best because there is no elevation. I can walk for miles, barefooted, sand between my toes and shells strewn along the way. Waves repeating melody cancels the cares of the world, healing power of sound and saltwater.
Except in some beaches of Portugal where the hike to the small beach among rugged cliffs is near impossible. A road leads down, the surf pounds and beware of being pulled under.
In Crete the road winds along sharp curves, narrow, sometimes one lane, for miles going down until finally, there is an expanse of beach, pink sand and clear water.
I started Early – Took my Dog – (656) A prose rewrite of Emily Dickenson I started early and took my dog and visited the sea. The mermaids in the basement came out to look at me. And frigates in the upper floor extended their hempen hands, presuming me to be a mouse aground upon the sands. But no man moved me till the tide went past my simple shoe and past my apron and my belt and past my bodice too, and made as he would eat me up as wholly as a dew upon a dandelion’s sleeve. And then I started too and he followed close behind. I felt his silver heel upon my ankle. Then my shoes would overflow with pearl! Until we met the solid town (no one he seemed to know) and bowing with a mighty look at me, the sea withdrew.