Bare legs and wellington boots, Marram grass slicing my calves. Dark sand, rippling back with the tide. Shells, like tiny toe-nails, patterning the shore. And my grandmother, headscarf pinning flaxen perm in place, holding my hand as the Little Train whistles in the wind, smoke and coal and oil seeping through the salt.
This is my childhood: two weeks from every summer, a desolate beach, and a narrow-track railway, fueling my dreams with steam.