Tuesday, 26 May 2015

Hastings



When you revisit a place, say once every other year, the landmarks make some kind of pattern and you feel a difference in the air and the water that makes the streets built on the cliffs familiar although they could never be home. This is a rebel town. It has always kept its distance from the mainstream: in a way, it is like visiting an island, the palpable sense of separateness. Conservatism is rejected. You can wander here without the feel of the judgemental eye although I caught one staring at me through an inn window. The difference is the eye once caught in the act of staring quickly turns away and you can carry on your business with a sense of freedom in your movements. Dusty shops with nonsensical stock piled up to the rafters in higgledy-piggedly towers that threaten to fall down and overweight shopkeepers who wouldn’t bat an eyelid if they did. All roads, in the end, reach the sea. The fishing boat stranded at high-tide waiting, yet not really waiting. This isn’t a place for those who like to keep a tally. 

Image: Su Joy

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