The Old Town and the Sea

We sit, bathed in the August evening sunshine, on shallow concrete steps that lead down into a sparkling sea.

In front of us, the waves gently splash over the lower steps, already covered by the incoming tide.

It's busy. Children play in the shallows, their laughter and shouts blending into the rolling waves. Parents look on, carefully watching over them.

Behind us is a walkway and the sea wall; the high barrier radiates stored-up heat like a huge concrete radiator. On the walkway, there is a constant stream of people. They casually stroll by, some eating ice cream, some snacking on other coastal town delights. The uncomfortable heatwaves of the past few months appear to have subsided, and we are now enjoying a much more natural, British summer.

Seagulls can be seen and heard everywhere. The large, squawking birds strut and hop about together in slightly threatening gangs; they eye up the humans, waiting to pick up discarded food from the ground or steal it directly from the hands of the unfortunate.

We are attending the annual Rebellion Festival, where the town has been temporarily invaded by gatherings of friendly punk rockers. We’re taking a short break from all the noise and have been leisurely meandering around the old Victorian seaside town.

The resort has seen better days; it is struggling and in decline, but it has an authenticity, an honest vibrancy that seems to override its run-down appearance.

We quietly chat about the little things that, over time, may become the big things; we take photos, check our phones for messages and gaze out across the Irish Sea into the setting sun.

Soon the waves will be covering our feet, so we will have to move. The incoming tide is perfectly timed with our dinner plans.

We gather up our things, turn our backs to the sea and make our way to the restaurant, leaving the steps to the incoming tide.