He lived here closer than me to the heart of one of the tales. We both remember walking down through Roman Camp as teenagers heading to the Village Inn or back from it in a haze of Abbott Ale. He’s been following the Black Dog Tales posts because he comes from here and he gets exactly what portion of the soul it grows from. Then he spotted a piece of graffiti near the lifeboat house, marked in faded paint on the wall stands Shuck, a curious inchmark in time, still here, still always remembered and present. In turn I pointed the things he’d missed, the surge damage to the Promenade and the shops, the change that continue to mark time in the town. Here he remembers a crashed German bomber engine on the beach and a Victorian brass propeller both exposed then covered again by the tide. We walked the length of the North beach past the Ispolen under its shifting shroud of sand, then further up to where the glacial twists flatten out and you can scramble up the cliff. We ended up in the town centre eating chips in the whirl of tourists. He’s hit that point where the pull of home, the gravity of the formative years has built a yearning to go back and look at some of the things that made him. The second opportunity was with a very old friend who comes from Sheringham originally but has lived elsewhere for the best part of thirty years. ![]() We had light and wind and moisture so we put one foot in front of the other and walked on. I like weather and I don’t particularly care for heat, an overrated and soul-sapping energy. ![]() In the past week we managed to fit in a couple of wanders along the coast. Friends came from the fringes of capital too. We’ve been busy, fitting holidays in, our emigrant family visited from Eastern Europe and nearer home. ![]() Combines throw their cones of dust over the fields pulling in the barley and wheat, sucking out what remains of the stored sun. August has whirled by, hardly a breath between the blowing rain and the dry panic of the harvest.
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