It was natural that they chose our village.
They need salt water, you see, and the Street is right next to it.
We’re just a long terrace of stone houses facing the sea and protected from it by the sea-wall, as high as a man’s shoulder on our side but falling nearly twenty feet on the other. Even so the waves splash over in winter.
Between the wall and the houses is the Street – a long, twisting alleyway built of the same stone as the rest and sometimes wide enough for three to walk abreast. It was there that we used to stop and gossip on our way to and from the Shop or the Fisherman’s Arms. I doubt if there’s a village like ours left in the whole of England.
Mind you, I’m a newcomer. Most of the others have lived here all their lives and you may well ask why I’m writing this instead of them.
The answer must be, I suppose, that out of those of us left, I’m the only one that can. Harry said it should be written up and if he says so, he’s probably right.