with six days on the shoreline, big winds and the wave slop along the mole, canvas and rope lines playing the masts. All that watery coming and going, the moon-slab tilt, with me reading tatty Lucky Lukes I found in the market stalls and eating cheese. Looking on. Sea as companion. Sea reassuringly unfake and in your face and in motion. Back in Ox I’m sixty miles from the wet and the syrupy, flytip rivers are no substitute. I pine for the flood.
