Huge piles of seaweed on the beach, ugly and stinky. Looking like miles and mountains of tangled brown audio tape. The blame is being placed on the weather, although that seems a little vague. Apparently it amounts to ten times the usual amount and will come to a thousand truckloads, to be taken off and mulched for fertilizer.
J stops to use the public facilities on the beach and reports that one cubicle is occupied by a man, feet clearly visible beneath the door, singing loudly in a good baritone, audible before he reached the building.