Low is the tide and the sky is grey, but not grey alone. White clouds race along, blue dots swirling around, it is Turner weather, a weather for an easel, a weather where the world disappears behind a veil of wind and the sea. The tide might be low, but the sea is roaring on the shore line. Waves rolling forth and back. Seagulls are struggling to keep their balance. The beach is empty, just a few lonesome wanderers passing along and with them slim and fast dogs chasing the wind or the sea, who does knows what a dog is up to, when its Turner weather. A weather, too strong, a sky neither grey, nor blue, the clouds hanging deep and deeper, are they made by heaven or are we just walking on a giant canvas, walking right into the middle, of a sky made of white and black oil colors , mixed to a grayish blue? The feet sink deep in the wet, heavy mud, seashells crack, water-holes appear, the seaweed glitters dark-green and I find a black stone, shimmering, brimming in my hands with its soft surface, the clouds now racing forward, making space for the sun that glitters for half an hour, we standing still, trying to catch a beam and then run for a second before the sun sinks back into the grey, the blue, the white sky that is not men made, even when Turner draw it so perfectly, so non repeatable, this sky comes from elsewhere, the pines sway in the blowing wind and suddenly it smells of resin and wood. And so, we stand still and quiet in the midst of the sky, on the ground that soon will be swallowed up again by the flood, but now we stand here, in the midst of the sea, that roars far ashore and we get blueish and grayish, tumble and sway int he wind till we forget where the world ends and where it begins, locked up in a greater, a bigger painting than those we have known before.