Walton-on-the-Naze

Evening. Salt and smoke on the wind, the rhythm of unseen waves. Rusting ironwork, narrow streets, drawn curtains, the occasional huddled shadow. A lamp cutting through the sleet. Boarded up shops, stacks of musty furniture short on veneer within. Tattoo parlours. A place of secrets, darkness and other lives. Curlers and dressing-gowns. But an honest dinner - 18th century low beamed pub, open log fire, earthy locals, atmosphere without pretension. A place where you meet toughened weather-worn eel-and-beef Brits east of London, the lights of Harwich and Felixstowe on the horizon, a pint of russet ale glowing in the candle flames. Black-and-white Leica time ...

9 January 2020