I know so well this turfy mile,
These clumps of sea-pink withered brown,
The breezy cliff, the awkward stile,
The sandy path that takes me down
To crackling layers of broken slate
Where black and flat sea-woodlice crawl
And isolated rock pools wait
Wash from the highest tides of all.
Extract from Greenaway by John Betjeman
Every year before I go I have a fear that I will be dissapointed, every year this magical place continues to deliver. My children have grown up loving it as much as me, we walk that same path, we see the same people but the landscape subtly shifts and sometimes new secrets are revealled. There is a comfort in custom and an anticpation to exception.
