A Cage To Hold My Dreams
Frinton-On-Sea
I always like to visit Frinton-On-Sea
and walk along the greensward
For more than quarter of a century
and possibly longer, nothing has changed.
The wind is a little stiffer, perhaps,
as it whips in from the sea. The same
old faces wear familiar expressions of
gloom and doom, and fewer children
appear to romp on the sands.
We used to hire a beach hut when
the children were young. I remember
getting burnt one day on a pot-handle
too near the stove. Everyone laughed
because they thought I was making
a fuss over nothing. 'Daddy's being
silly' was their unanimous verdict.
The shops were untypically resort-like,
selling cards and sweets and walking
sticks and summer clothes at inflated
prices which Celia thought outrageous.
She would run the material through
her fingers and say loudly, for everyone
to hear, 'I can get this in Watford
for half the price !'
I loved the second-hand bookshops
and lost myself in them for hours on end.
The search for a bargain was endless,
like water spouting from a fountain.
Happy as a goat grazing in the sun
I would examine each title as intently
as a doctor testing cervical smears.
What I love most about this town
is the way it glories in its distant past.
and ignores the mad rush towards
modernity which other places up and
down the coast are persuaded to do .
Fifty years from now, everything that
I am enjoying today will still be here.
Everything except me, that is, and
today's prices. A man will still be selling
cushions stuffed and stitched in
the back of his shop and a man in
a blue striped apron will be still be
selling what he claims is the best
mackerel anywhere on the east coast.
