Last night was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a storm.

I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs.
Today is a gray day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness.

Everything is gray except the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the gray sea, into which the sandpoints stretch like gray figures.

The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland.

The horizon is lost in a gray mist.