The swell rolls in, rising and breaking and surging into spume that surfs across the sand. Back and forth, back and forth, waxing and waning with the breath of the moon. There is constancy in its changeless routines and changeable moods.

Down at the water’s edge soft soughing fills the air, pierced by the quarrelsome cries of gulls. And the brine on the breeze smells of … innocence … cut-throat pirates, crows’ nests, the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song, Billy Bones and Blind Pew.

Looking out from this place landlocked lubbers once dreamed of distant shores … the Spanish Main, Portuguese Men o’ War, Ancient Mariners, the cargoes of Masefield and the Bounties of Bligh.

But the horizon and the romance have become foreshortened because even the seascape is now in harness to our appetites. The wind farms that fence in the skyline try in vain to keep up with our cravings. One day, perhaps, even the wind will be exhausted.

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The jarring jingle of the ice-cream van has usurped the sirens’ song and a little grey donkey bearing the mark of the cross on her back in memory of Jerusalem now goes by the name of Fifi. She stands on the sand in pink taffeta hat and fake-flower necklace patiently waiting to ply her trade.

But from the kiss-me-quick to the squeeze-me-slow, a shadow hangs over this beachfront view – the plastic buckets and the plastic spades and the plastic pitted sand, and the bottle tops and the beer cans, and all the fun of the fair.

Behind the sands the straddling tower casts a sombre eye over the bustling crowds, the bingo halls and the tramcars, the sticky sweets and the penny arcades. And as the day sinks into the sea there are big lights and big shows and night-time bars with ‘Funny Girls’ and ‘Table Dancing’; and the Little Black Pug presents a drag act with the alluring stage name ‘Baga Chipz’.

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Many of the streets away from the front have a melancholy air, the guesthouses and trinket shops have seen better days – before their regulars flew south for the season for too many sangrias and too much sun.

But there is also optimism in the air – new buildings, new jobs, a fresh start and new hope. And most of all there are the beaches – the glorious golden beaches – washed and cleaned and always new under a windswept sun – with families and picnics, cricket and castles, and endless days that stretch on and on into childhood.

And time passes. Generations come and generations go. The sun rises and the sun sets, and the mountains come down to the sea.

And the swell rolls in, rising and breaking and surging into spume that surfs across the sand. Back and forth, back and forth, waxing and waning with the breath of the moon. And down at the water’s edge soft soughing fills the air, pierced by the quarrelsome cries of gulls.

And the earth remains … forever.