s h a n n a h

There are other places/ Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws,/ Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city—/ But this is the nearest, in place and time,/ Now and in England.
T S Eliot, Little Gidding, Four Quartets

Caught between the sea and sand, human existence seems to hang by a thread, a desperate fishing line that runs down the east coast. We drifted through isolated settlements of fishermen on our forays into the unknown, nothing more than reeds and the occasional whale jawbone held together by fishing net. They were so basic they couldn’t even qualify as villages – just sticks in the sand, occupied when needed, bare and empty when we passed through.

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