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BRIXHAM

In a more wistful time, coils of rope and clumsy stacks of lobster pots sat caked in the ghostly, salt-cracked sheen of Neptune’s kiss. A flock of seagulls squabbled overhead like teenagers, nervous with hunger and hormones. Multi-coloured houses toothed the surrounding hills, their bold yet playful paints concealed the rugged, weather-proof walls. A mother and a young girl skipped down to the sun-bleached quayside from their pastel blue house to explore the town. The cobbled streets, not yet masked in tarmac, carried the buoyant, saline scent of the early morning fish market. The girl would squeal with equal delight and disgust as a chuckling fisherman scooped his shimmering catch over the gunwale, his ruddy cheeks peeking merrily over his tufty beard. She would cherish these weekly adventures, with the warmth of the sun, the scent of the sea and her mother’s gently guiding hand; a perpetual summer in her memory

 

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