The heaving tide goes out and the boats settle on the muddy bed of the beck, a dozen or so cobles in huddles, a keel-boat on its own, with its wheelhouse looking like a hat set at a jaunty angle.
Mooring ropes swing gently in the decreasing wind and the much diminished beck ripples over the stones as the sun fires up the orange-red sandstone cottages which rise sheer from the shingle. The new brightness picks out the colours of the cobles, inside periwinkle blue, outside various bands of bright red, dark blue and white follow the curves of the hulls.
A stocky little girl in a warm coat and sensible shoes stands in the shadow of a coble, the top of her head level with the lowest sweep of the gunwale. She pulls a dangling tyre away from the side and lets it go to watch the water trapped in it splash out as it bounces against the hull, again and again until the water no longer splashes from it.
Up above, across the footbridge, two parents, willing beasts of burden with a baby-buggy, back-packs and babies, emerge from the shadow of the houses, the first of the dawdling Sunday afternoon procession of sight-seers. They come to smell the sea and see the cliffs and hear the gulls and to get away from the daily grind, though it seems as if they have brought a good deal of it with them.
Two women, one in red, the other in black, both with dogs, greet a tall slim grey-haired man in faded denim with a faded poodle before turning down the staithe towards the lifeboat station, where they will do their bit towards saving lives by buying pencils and fruit-knives.
By the lifeboat slipway, a toddler in a green hooded coat and her camera-carrying father in a sheepskin jacket, followed by grandma and grandpa in long dark overcoats, return from gazing out to sea, thinking of tea and cakes at the cafe on the far side of the harbour.
Back on the footbridge, leaning on the railing, a young man dressed in black tosses the remains of his chip butty to a gathering of eager ducks and, adjusting his baseball cap, turns as if called to. A young woman beams at him as she approaches, her long blonde hair a stunning contrast with the black of her jean jacket and short sharp skirt. She puts her arm around his waist. They look into each others eyes, and walk on in a mouth-to-mouth embrace.
The ducks advance down the slope of the riverbed like a squad of police officers combing a field for evidence and dabble and paddle in the fresh water. Before long the sea will return and the photographer on the mud, taking pictures of the boats, will have to retreat up the slipway to look for a new angle, and the tide of visitors will depart up the steep hill to the car-park and beyond.
Another weekend over.