Waves crash onto rocks, again and again. Wind and salt spray and rain add to the onslaught, all trying to break their steadfastness. It may take millennia but it will be done. At the high-tide line, a pair of oystercatchers poke at the seaweed detritus, looking for morsels of shellfish. In a hollow, some stones have become trapped. On each tide they swirl and grind, smoothing each other and the walls of their rocky prison. At low tide they dry out in the sun and look like a nest of eggs laid by some prehistoric creature. Further up the shore, long ago underground forces have pushed rocks skywards so they now stand vertically, proud and defiant against the elements.