Mid-April, and the beach is packed in a parody of summer. Candy-floss sellers, the still horses of the carousel waiting for the swirling music to begin. Smell of meat, onions frying. We cut through this, our intention to reach the museum that waits housing the past at the top of the cliff. The people on the beach are wearing swimsuits despite the weak sunshine. Lots of voices speaking in other languages. We walk under the pier. Moss dangling like the green beard of some strange sea god and barnacles shining like stars on the black tar of a strut.