WALT: I am learning to write descriptive stories. Many years ago, when I was just a small boy, we found a mysterious object washed up on the beach. It was a sort of silver-grey colour, and looked like a finger, only much, much larger. My friends and I had huddled together on the beach around the thing, holding our hands up to our faces to shield our eyes from the dazzling sun, talking excitedly about what it could be. Some hours later, after we had all made up wild stories about the origin of our new toy, we dragged the colossal item that was the size of our dining table up to the village. As we made our way slowly over the sand dunes, and the long, wispy grass that marked the end of the beach and the start of the fields, a crowd seemed to be gathering. Women and young children were leaving their houses, young lads were leaving tools and ploughs unattended in the fields, and rosy-cheeked men were stumbling out of the smoke-filled tavern, all hurrying with increasing urgency towards u...
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