The Old Town and the Sea

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

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

It's busy. Children can be seen playing in the shallows, the sound of their laughter and shouts blends into the rolling waves. Parents can be seen looking 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 slowly stroll by, some eating ice cream or other traditional 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.

Not surprisingly, seagulls are in abundance. 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 taking a short break from the Rebellion Festival, where the town has been invaded by groups of T-shirt-wearing punk rockers, ourselves included, and we have been leisurely meandering around the old Victorian town.

The resort has seen better days; it is struggling, and clearly 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 timing of the incoming tide is fortunate; it's in sync with our dinner plans.

We gather our things, turn our backs to the sea and leave the steps to the incoming tide.