A harbour sits at the edge of a little fishing town. Its high tide, so it is at its best, with fishing boats, small motorboats and a large number of birds, all resting on the surface of the blue-grey water. Behind them sits a small black ship with white and red stripes along the top, and a Tudor rose displayed on the front. Around the harbour, houses and shops stretch up a steep hill and a church steeple can be seen in the distance. The buildings’ many colours reflect clearly in the water, which barely even ripples, despite the cold breeze. On one side of the harbour there is a little white hut with a sign saying “snack bar,” which is bustling with life in the summer, but now stands deserted. People wander about near the buildings carrying their shopping and an old couple walk hand in hand along the break water with their dog. A few schoolgirls stand chatting and a seagull lands gracefully on a statue of Willam of Orange. Huddles of women gather outside a cluster of take-aways. A group of round bellied men stand under a white shelter, mending fishing nets. I blend in as I push a pram away from the harbour.
It has been ten years since I was last here.