‘…largest beach-based fleet in Britain,’ boasts the information sign. With no natural harbour since The Great Storm of 1287, trawlermen have learnt to moor their vessels on the beach. They return laden with turbot, monkfish, mackerel and more, to face a purposeful collision with the shore. Bearded men, clad in oilskins, slide skis under the hulls, simultaneously attaching winch cables. The boats lurch, listing violently, but they never topple. Welcome to my hometown of Hastings in southeast England. Chip-fed gulls wheel overhead, swooping down and adopting octogenarian posture against an onshore gale. Behind me, the East Hill Victorian funicular (Britain’s steepest) has now ceased to ply up its eroded cliff section. Instead, the red carriages shelter behind shutters - away from the icy, snow-filled gusts - and the track is refurbished in anticipation of summer tourists.
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