The world is made of sand. And rocks. And the North Sea. Here you can observe many fascinating species of wildlife, and omigod, there are two terrible, long-legged creatures charging out of the fog! Baring great white fangs, salivating and heading straight for us…

Woof.

Oh, it’s you lot. What have you been up to?

DJANGO: I peed on many stuffs. Salty stuffs.

CHILLI: Had a drink. This water still tastes icky.

Our recent trip to my home territory on the Yorkshire coast involved a lot of the North Sea. Much of it was hanging in the sky, as we spent four days in fogbanks, mists, sea-frets and other suspended wetnesses. It felt very much like November. Which made no difference to the lurchers. So we braved the mists and icy winds, never quite sure what was around the next headland – or where the other person was.

Occasionally other brave souls would loom from the grey curtain, muttering “Now then,” which is a greeting of wild and ecstatic companionship in East Yorkshire. And one fellow walker paused to explain out she hadn’t brought her dog’s ball. “Pointless,” she said. “Neither I nor the dog can see where the hell it goes.” It really was that dense at times.

The wild coast always has an effect on the little donkeys. Energy levels go up, especially with the older dog, Chilli, who only usually agrees to one walk a day (one and half if she’s feeling generous). Take her near the sea, and suddenly she is booming about in huge circles on the sands. She loves it. Django sees more opportunities to bumble about, and goes into his normal sniffing and peeing routine with added enthusiasm. Why stay at home peeing on daffodils when you can come here and pee on a dead lobster?

(Our previous lurcher, Jade, took a very different view of the coast. Being a very neurotic rescue, poor soul, she would mostly stand in the middle of the flat sands and bark, distinctly unsure about all this wettery. Small rivers and streams she liked; a whole sea was far too much, thank you.)

During the times when we could see anything, I played ‘fetch’. It was great. I would throw a stick or a piece of kelp, the mighty lurchers would chase it, and then… I would go and fetch it. As usual, Django and Chilli viewed my persistence with interest. They were all for having a run, but once a stick stopped moving, it was on its own. Seeing that I looked disappointed, Chilli did bite some of the kelp in half, but then wandered off again. So no change there.

Of course, we went once more to the village of Auburn, because it isn’t there any more. The sea took it, long ago. But there is a wonderful stretch of sands there, mile upon mile.

Between Auburn Beck and the The Earl’s Dyke, there is little but sand and the low crumbling cliffs, not chalk but muddy clay. Ideal for a lurcher who wants to do some rock-climbing without having to carry ropes and pitons.

And this time we did see seals what had got sick of them surging waves and did want a kip. Full of concern about stranded marine mammals and so on, we went closer and were greeted with a lot of sharp teeth and growling barks of “Can’t a chap have a lie down on his own beach these days?” A Marine Rescue guy had been called out already by some previous walker, and we stood on a long, deserted beach as he demonstrated responsiveness in young seals. He waved a piece of cloth near one, and it bit it. Hard. “Put you in hospital, that would,” he said cheerfully. “Blood poisoning in a day.”

Most curiously (and to our relief), our lurchers had no interest whatsoever in the seal. Chilli had run off up a beck to see if she could find drinkable water, and Django was busy peeing on stuff. Water in; water out. And the fog rolled over all of us.

There is only one drawback to these visits. The sofa at the place where we stay is small, as are the armchairs. Every evening consists of major battle manoeuvres to get on the sofa first, and then the Oppression of the Hierarchy. Or in other words, Chilli is the Boss.

If she gets on first and claims it, Django paces around the house, moaning, until he abandons hope and lies down on the rug with a dissatisfied Whumppfle.

If he gets on first, Chilli pokes me with a sharp set of claws a few times to see if I’m going to do anything about it, and then hops on next to him, shoving him to one side. His eyes roll, and he squishes into the corner of the sofa, trying to find somewhere to put his sixteen legs.

DJANGO: I is oppressed.

CHILLI: I is comfy. Ha ha.

It’s a cruel world by the North Sea.