Mist blurs the Deben bar. As the morning wears on, the veil peels back across the narrow strait, revealing the tree-lined beach on the far side. The gothic towers of Bawdsey Manor are hidden by high pines, the pulhamite cliffs and gardens lie around the headland spur. Boys skim pebbles in front of a row of corroding sheet piles, whilst their parents sit on the shingle, searching for passing ships. The north shore tempts, but the bat is not in its holder yet; there’s no ferryman to call to my side with a wave.
clearing mist . . .
the ferry tethered
Note: A wooden bat is used to call the ferry operator to the shore.