Sunshine week, blue sky and calm sea. Took the opportunity of just me leaving the house to head off twenty minutes early, cut right at the usual station, jog briskly along by the petrol station, and carve down back streets towards the sea, early anglers, an old Mini in a Union Jack outfit, the hanging pegs of a sea salvage gantry in the background.
Bishopstone Station got left behind by the war, reclaimed by a flag from its Friends. Here, the purpose is pure travel, unlike the commerce or promises of clifftops opening up further down the track. The station is empty when I get there, other than an unreachable apple tree and a left-behind crutch alongside long-exposured sun-tracing images.
As the clock ticks over, a lady arrives and we say Good Morning. It's the same train as usual that I jump into, but somehow it feels different today. Everything is different, the blanks in existence filled in more by the routes taken to get there than by the shapes they fill.