WIND
extracts from
BLOOD ON THE STRAND
James O'Donnell Photography.
Aggie was delighted to be out – the weather
didn’t bother her. Heads down, Russell and Weeks were striding into the driving
rain while she scampered around their feet, tail up, revelling in the scents
she found along the shoreline. The two men said very little to each other. The
roaring of the wind and crashing of the surf made conversation close to impossible.
The storm showed no sign of abating; if anything it was increasing.
The Shipwrights Arms - Compass Point.
Crossing the railway line he walked along the
stony track, past the simple weatherboard structure that served as the station
building and up to the Shipwrights Arms. It too was a simple, single-storey structure,
but built in local sandstone with a pan-tiled roof, unusual for the area. Sat
four square at the end of the quay, hunkered down against the weather, it had
withstood gale-force winds, salt spray and lashing rain for more than a century.
After they’d
left the shelter of Boulogne Harbour the boat had moved easily to the long
swell. But as they’d progressed across the Channel the motion had become less
comfortable as the sea became more troubled. The wind had increased with every
mile they travelled. Soon it was wailing in the rigging – a discordant keening
– a child in the chimney. The craft was sturdy, built to take whatever the
weather could throw at it. But even now the timbers groaned and seawater
slopped about in the bilge. The two men looked anxiously towards the low
shoreline, its featureless contours frequently disappearing in the squally rain.
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