It begins here, on this bleak and windy shore, with him looking towards the horizon, imagining the land and the lakes his brother wrote about in his letters home. Behind him, in the huddle of houses hugging one side of the harbour, his home. Above and beyond, graceful Georgian town houses.
The port is still thriving, this isn’t the 30s, not yet, there’s still plenty of work, like on the coal boats to Ireland that he’s worked on since he was 14 years old, or thereabouts. This is not yet the idle port, collapsed into itself that he’ll come back to, to the level of unemployment that will drive him away again. Read More