The mind wanders. For twenty miles this road to the coast meets no obstructions, no complications. It goes only there. But then come the trailers and chalets, the camping and caravan parks, and I took a right turn, came out where I hadn’t intended to be. We’re still heading for the sea, but the wrong side of the resort, towards my flat and the art school, away from our caravan. I have come this way too often before. The town is fringed here by marshes, allotments, donkeys and ponies in ramshackle stables. A black-girdered bridge takes us over the river, quayside derricks in the distance, the flourmill and brewery. I accelerate past warehouses, squat industrial sheds, and arrive at the racetrack. Outside the stadium are hoardings of stock cars and bangers. The colours are gaudy, surprising. A grey canvas banner says CANCELLED. Fifty yards further on I turn left off a roundabout and ascend towards bungalows, pampas grass in the gardens, trees and hedges made blotty with snow. An old man walks with one hand outstretched for a fall, touching the lampposts, the railings.
