The waves play around the rock, filling the foreground with endless movement, with random bursts of white, and the more distant ocean juggles with falling light, keeping a million sequins of sunshine rocking and gleaming and shining backrepeated in varying detail every few pages.
What's not seascape is the obscure sort of characters I've come to expect in English fiction, who think and feel things I never have. I suppose there are late teen undergraduates who fall in love with someone and discern their innate character after a mere two weeks of social acquaintance, and even younger women, completely inexperienced, who decide who they'll marry on the same basis, and it does *not* turn out badly: only I've never met them in RL.
But the safety of this kind of fiction- everyday life and beautiful prose for the sake of beautiful prose- is that, in theory, it will never dump genre events on you. No vampires, serial killers, mermen, psychics, or corpses: and the romance will be, well, not genre romance at least. In theory. But Paton Walsh does not play fair and I shall avoid her assiduously in future.