Blackpool, Christmas Day. Low season, high winds. The sky swaddled with cloud. The sea restless and threatening. The English seaside resort in winter: shuttered, forlorn, dormant.
A man’s most open actions have a secret side to them. (Under Western Eyes – Joseph Conrad)
The grey roots circle thee, who never knew At any hour within thy travels lone A human shape but mine. Thou com’st to view, Wild, unafraid, what stands beside thy stone And gazes on thee in thy wilderness Of fifty miles. What thinkst thou of me, For I am of a race thou could’st not guess Would murder all thy hapless innocency? (‘The Adder of Quinag’ – Olive Fraser)
What do we call them, these hybrid, liminal places? ‘Parks’, it seems. ‘Park’ being a word that conjures nothing of their reality, their bounty and their lack.