The feet in warm sand restore a flagging spirit like no salve or caring hand.

From Alfred’s journal

Down at the lake all morning, in no mood for anybody, and I landed on the shallow strip where the water had gone out and left the sand baking. I had meant only to drink. Instead I stood there a long while with my feet sunk in the warm grit and something in me came back that no amount of being talked to had managed all week. For years I thought the cure for a low spirit was company, or at least good words from somebody who meant them; the feet in warm sand restore a flagging spirit like no salve or caring hand, and I have no account of why this should be so. Switch came by later and asked what I was doing and I said standing. He sat down in it too, which is more sense than I showed at his age.