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.
This was now the first time that I had looked well about me since landing, as the spot where I had been laid was covered with thick bushes which almost hid the country from our view. As we now emerged from among these and walked down the sandy beach together, I cast my eyes about, and, truly, my heart glowed within me and my spirits rose at the beautiful prospect which I beheld on every side.
(The Coral Island – RM Ballantyne)
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.
(‘Sea Fever’ – John Masefield)
When I was down beside the sea
A wooden spade they gave to me
To dig the sandy shore.
My holes were empty like a cup.
In every hole the sea came up
Till it could come no more.
(‘At the Sea-Side’ – Robert Louis Stevenson)