It was early in the morning.

        It was the harshest winter that Horseshoe Bay had seen in some time.

        I had the beach all to myself.

        The snow-dusted sand, a sprinkling of sugar over a crumbly dessert, crunched deliciously under my hooves – the kind of crunch that made your gums feel sympathetically tingly as you pictured filling your mouth with something sweet and warm – and I barely noticed the biting cold as that delightful sound echoed out across the vast stillness; it was a palpable silence, one that blanketed the area with a morass almost as thick as the coastal fog which reduced visibility to just a few metres in front of my, literally, rose-tinted eyes.

        The sort of silence that I could almost touch.

        Turning my head, my eyes lingered over the path that had brought me here; already, the falling snow served to disguise the slight indentations I had left behind in the slushy trail. I'd often heard it said that, when you visit somewhere, you should leave nothing behind but hoofprints. For a moment, I stood and stared, watching in interest as the tiny gaps were clotted with a filmy white balm, almost as if the earth itself was moving to repair the wounds that my puny lilac hooves had so thoughtlessly done to its skin.

         I leave so little impression on the world.

        With the fog obscuring my vision, I could no longer see it, but familiarity told me exactly where it was to be found; the home that I shared with my family was back there somewhere at the other end of the path, and familiarity also told me exactly what they would be doing right now: sitting together, sharing love and warmth and stories and hot cocoa, wondering why that weird pony who lived with them was out fooling around in the cold again.

        I love them as much as I am able to, and they are no doubt fond of me, I think – they've certainly never done anything to indicate otherwise, and I appreciate their bemused tolerance of my quirks – but sometimes, I need this personal time. It recharges me in a way that I cannot quite articulate.

        Certainly, I've never been able to provide them with an explanation that they find satisfactory whenever I return home with another case of the sniffles.

        New sounds soon filled my ears and they have perked up of their own accord, not wishing to miss a single note of the beach's serene, lonesome melody; it was too bitter a day for even a single, solitary gull to make its presence felt, so there was none of their idle chatter to break up the mellifluous flow of water gently lapping at the rocks with its distinct sploshing cadence. I couldn't help but giggle at the abyssal plop that rang out when the two streams – split in twain when they had thrown themselves in a futile charge against the impervious mass of floury ochre sediment – reconnected with each other and rushed to fill the aching void of air their separation had created between them.

         The way they come together reminds me of the fillies and colts greeting each other at the train station, although that's more of a squelchy  noise if anything.

        I close my eyes, allowing my body to sway gently in time to the flippant rhythms of the refreshing breeze that grips my blue-grey mane and tousles it as my father so often does whenever he catches me doing something endearing; peace fills my heart, and for a moment I can pretend that the elements are far more elemental than a mere side-effect of the work of hundreds of highly-trained pegasus ponies operating in unison.

        My schoolmates like to swap horror stories of places in Equestria where the weather is wild and untamed, operating to no schedule but its own, in order to terrify each other. I can't help thinking that I'd like to visit, maybe even live in, one of those places someday.

         Maybe it'd help me feel less odd?

        Snapping out of my reverie, I crouched down, my enthralled glaucous tail still swishing back and forth with the hypnotic undulations of the wind – it was a little bit more difficult to ignore the sudden chill that spread throughout my body from my butt upwards as it came to a rest on the frigid ground and I all I could hear was my teeth chattering loudly together – and I scooped up some of the sand; it felt hard and rough in my hoof, not at all like the smooth, free-flowing dust that had ruined many a picnic. I peered at it curiously for a moment before balling it up and flicking it away. Rubbing the hooves of my forelegs together, I sadly departed with the remaining detritus, then got back on to all four legs.

        So rough, in fact, was the sand that, even with the thickened pads at the bottom of my hooves forming a barrier, it hurt to walk on; its ongoing war with the snow had hardened it, shaping each grain into a series of whetted daggers that sought to attack any enemy that blithely wandered into its territory. Tiny tremors of pain prickled up my legs, but that was not enough to deter me from my goal.

         I'd had worse whenever I've accidentally stepped on my little brother's building blocks.

        The wonderful, invigorating scent of the ocean hit me hard and fast; like deep-fried hayfries smothered in salt the tang forced its way into my nostrils, providing me with a sublimely inebriating sensation that left me feeling quite light-headed. I breathed in deeply, wishing to take into my body as much of that intoxicating flavour as I could stomach. Just as with hayfries, I could only have so much of it before I started to feel bloated and sick, however.

        Reluctantly, I tore my gaze away from the wavy pulsations of the sea and turned my attention, instead, to the sky above; a dense accumulation of clouds made it appear as white as the ground, but the coverage was not total, nor was the composite as entirely uniform as it first appeared. They had a surreal, almost dreamlike, aspect to them, as if the lightly swirling whorls had been deftly painted into place by an artist on a ruddy canvas.

        Though even the warmth of Celestia's sun was powerless to cut through the glacial conditions permeating my beach, it was still a beautiful sight to behold, and behold it I did until I could bear its majesty no longer and was forced to avert my eyes. What it represented ran deeper than being just a simple glowing orb that provided light and heat; it was the hope and love of a nation, distilled into one shining beacon that watched over us all.

         How many other ponies are watching the sunrise right now, thinking that exact same thing?

        The wind, having finished teasing some nearby leaves, returned to tug at my hair once more; my hooves, operating independently, brought me to a rocky outcropping and I sat down. Despite the gale nipping at me, I felt nothing but a sense of contentment surge through my body. I closed my eyes, happy to do nothing more than simply allow the sounds of the beach to wash over me. I was so lucky to have this day, to have this place to myself. Something tickles the hooves of my dangling hindlegs.

        Something wet and cold.

        I open my eyes, just in time to catch the ocean in the act of trying to catch my attention by spraying my hooves with salt water again.

        Delicately, I dip my left hoof into the water, breaking the surface as much as I dare – after what happened on the path earlier, I'm a little bit more careful – and kick gently, sending a few drops flying gracefully into the air. I track their movements until they splash back down with a soft pat, the sea becoming whole once more in the process.

         The ocean waved to me. It's only polite that I return the gesture.

        Swinging my hindlegs around and stepping back on to the grainy sand, a silly grin breaks out across my muzzle; the sun's rays have caused the fog to lift somewhat, and a short distance across the beach I can just about make out the remnants of an old ice-cream stand. I approach it, I appraise it, I circle it with wide-eyed curiosity. My mind's eye is filled with visions of warm summer afternoons, the crush of ponies seeking a sweet treat forming a serpentine queue snaking its way across the shoreline, and I can't help but feel an ache in my heart for this poor, forgotten stall. Within its old wooden frame, I can almost smell the essences of chocolate, strawberry and vanilla soaked into its very soul, and I stroke its rotting timbers affectionately.

        They reply by issuing a startled creak.

        I have a hunch that the ice-cream stand wishes to be left alone; like myself, perhaps it wants to enjoy the pleasures of this cool winter's morning by itself, or perhaps it knows that it hasn't much time left to it and wants to get its affairs in order. In either case, I respect its desire for solitude and make my way back to the outcropping where the sea first introduced itself to me.

        Once again, I am overwhelmed by a peaceful feeling suffusing me; it is a warm, comforting blanket made with the love of a doting mother, but it is not meant for the body, but for the spirit. A vague glimmer of sorrow clutches my bosom as the realisation dawns that I will likely never enjoy so tranquil a day upon this beach again.

        Closing my eyes, my new friends close at hoof, I allow the tears that have been building to fall.

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