The Tuesday morning market. A gun shop window. Surprising rooftops. Flowers from the edge of the world.
There is a sense already of the powers holding this town in place. Tide gates and flood defence. The land reclaimed from the sea. A boat trip around the Coronation Channel, coots and crested grebes nesting under willow trees, the wide reach matched by the river taxi’s slow potter, ends abruptly at the sluice. End of the line. Edge of the world. Beyond this point the tidal river, marsh flats sulking towards the sea.
We think of Canute. Holding back the tides. Fragility. Of influx. Of travelling over the sea. Migrations. At evening in this town we have eaten Indian food in our hotel and, last night, in a fine Baltic restaurant. A part of our story is the inevitabilty of migration. Of the sea.
(Also, we have noticed lots of jigsaw puzzles.)