Quiet — still, silence. The path sandy. Any wind blew high up in the trees. Beaufort Force One.

It is always noisy here. Not big noise of the city with a low level thrum of traffic, the loud bleating of sirens, and a general clamor of doors slamming, hawker’s shouting, the rush of wheels, “On your right!” But noisy. It is the ocean always in the background. Somewhere in that noise are the rolling of rocks on the beach, the crash and the splash of a wave. Differentiated sounds if you were at the beach but just this far back they are a noise. White noise, I think it is called.