YOU don't hear the waves until you listen to them.
Then you can't hear anything else.
It's a roar and a hiss, and it comes from far over the horizon.
It was grey and brown at Goodrington in the late afternoon, and once you had cleared your mind and started to listen, the sound of the waves was intense.
They came quickly, one after the other, stroppy grey one-foot waves with foam on the top, racing in from the east and then laying themselves out on the soft, flat red-brown sand, pushing foam like the head on a bad pint.
The sky was grey, the sea grey and the coastline grey all the way to Brixham, where streets and shops and houses were lit up for the late afternoon.
Reg and I did the South Sands down and back, turning at the closed kiosk. Then when we got back to the middle we did the North Sands up and back, turning where the grumpy sea rolled against the concrete steps.
The easterlies have pulled the sand out from the bottom of the wall and replaced it with shingle. Winter storms will make great troughs in the beach where the waves hit the wall, but next spring the sand will be back again.
Winter falls quickly on seaside towns.
One day you are out in your short sleeves and sunglasses. The next you have your collar up against the scuffing grey wind and your dog has his ears flat and his eyes squinting into the wind.
Kiosks are closing for winter.