The Bridge
I sit in a restaurant, thinking about The Bridge. The fading autumn sunlight lends the Albert Dock an air of melancholy, deepening the pits and furrows in the brickwork. Tourists still point and shop and take photographs. Smart office workers negotiate the cobbled walkways with a practised hustle, while art students drift in and out…
Short Days
‘The nights are really drawing in now, aren’t they?’ ‘Aye.’ ‘Nip in the air.’ ‘That time of year.’ The old man, who had been stalking me across the desolate golf course with a huge Great Dane, fell silent as he looked out over the estuary. ‘Got to take as much in while we can.’ It was…
The Boatyard
The wind howls up the slipway, clinking through the sleeping masts of the sick and dying vessels, bringing with it the defining scent of my childhood summers: salt, mud and a hint of sewage. The yard – like its inhabitants – is unkempt, but highly functional. By day, tattoos quiver on weather-beaten hides all round…
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