The weather was perfect. Temps in the mid-sixties, the slightest of breezes and clear skies at night. Mostly up-scale Mercedeses and Ram vans, the loudest noise was, one evening, my own expulsive cry of ecstasy.
A few of the sites, thanks to the vegetation, offer a modicom of privacy. But the proximity of others meant Smith remaining leashed 'til after dark. We've reached an understanding, or so she's led me to believe, and I've learned, upon hearing the squeak of her paws as she slides down the dewslickened windshield, to open the window. Stepping from the outside mirror, she slips her Lurpacness through. Having breakfasted at 3:30, she, without ado, settles to her morning rest.
According to the camphosts, the beach sand is taken away by winter storms leaving it a madman's pavement; ranging from pebbles through cobbles to small boulders.
The variation of types and their colors are a feast! Very few, if any, shells, however. Over the course of the summer, they say, the sand returns.