The old house was a warren of rooms and corridors and it was only by chance that I discovered a spray soaked boardwalk. A very old and decrepit man was ensconced in a blanket on a wicker chair. He gazed ruminatively out to sea as the rolling waves crashed into the seawall sending spumes of foam upwards like clutching hands.

His diary lay open next to him, filled with spidery notations and strange illustrations. I ventured closer to gain some detail, noticing that his interest was in ornithology, in particular a fierce and troubling species of bird. Surely it was his imagination in full flight, rather than the raptor on the page.

The date on the diary was three years out of date but it was the most recent entry. The diffraction of time in this inn was confusing and made me question its relativity to my own situation. Was December 5 2007 an important date and why? The elastic nature of events and the bizarre synchronicity at work befuddled my overtaxed mind.

While I pondered the imponderable a small movement behind a curtain caught my eye. I was being observed from inside the hotel. Who could possibly find me interesting?