The other week we sat on a balcony bar by the River Trent, watching a sunset and a strange tidal surge (ware aegir) and the water meadows over the water that looked like another country… (or maybe it was nottinghamshire)

Border town.

(if we wanted to make a run for it then this would be the time and place; an unguarded bridge, the cover of traffic and the boom of the bar. no sign of searchlights or border guards.)

Gainsborough, again… at last 

We are all set to leave, but lingering. (so easy sometimes to simply think about slipping over borders into otherworld, or neverland… or over the ‘over the rainbow’ bridge… )

We wonder, again, about home. What it means for this to be one place and ‘over there’ to be somewhere else (here old docks and warehouses shored up against the tide; there, a dog dance field and children playing). Does it matter? Does anyone notice? (Who we are and where we come from?) Is is just the conceit of maps? Of councils? (we enjoy the commemorative stone at the bridges’s apex recording civic architects of both counties.) Of tourism? (Visit Lincolnshire…)

A bit like yesterday when we stood in Louth with one foot east and the other foot west of the meridian. Thinking of Lincolnshire born John Harrison and the search for longitidue that allowed this mark… Thinking of the collection cases of the gentlemen of Spalding; protractor, assegai, horse hair, butterfly… Thinking of decorated coffin clocks in the Usher Gallery… 

A bit like another just gone day at Isaac Newton’s Woolsthorpe farmhouse home, wondering in the rain about gravity’s apple and whether the whitewash of walls might have made simpler the contemplation of precision, of measurement, of falling, of edges, of sunlight, of borders…

And so we sit a while and watch the sun down and the tidal rise.

And the next day, when the traffic lights had changed, we left… For home.

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