140. The Bay.

Always keen to get more readers reading this. Especially when it ends so well.

Repro Man - stories from a reluctant reprographer.

Reading the tide times by lamplight in the caravan, waiting for the sea to leech out into the darkness, exposing rock and pool and weed.
“You’ll be careful, won’t you, love?” she says for the fifth time.
“I will.”
I kiss her and the kids and step out into the quiet night.
The clunk of the closing door breaks the spell of the caravan as a warm, safe refuge, exposes it as a tin box sitting in a field.
I pull the bucket of gear from beneath the caravan, wet grass glistening in the weak moonlight, and I set off.
Across fields, the bulky oblong silhouettes of ruminating cattle shift uneasily as I walk past, boots swishing through longer grass and thistles, bucket clunking against my leg.
Over a gate another field, pitching downwards, shallow to begin with but growing steeper, funneling into gorse and swathes of bracken, now birch…

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140. The Bay.

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