THE NORTH RIDING PROJECT

Since the steam drifters no longer hoot through those dank mists, locally called frets, and the noise of electronic organs on the quayside fairground makes it impossible to hear men auctioning hundredweights of fish, I prefer the noise of the sea which has many voices.  There is the whisper of waves on lioncoloured sands, the shrill of the swash and fetch over wrack-strewn pools and that tremendous thoomp as the combers crash against the incurved walls of the harbour and the Marine Drive.

Hillaby/Yorkshire, 1986