A long time ago – well, it was August – we went to Mabelthorpe on the east coast. It’s a place I’d never been before and one to where the poet had long promised to take me. And so, one breezy Saturday, we headed over there so he could at last say we’d been.
I can’t remember much about the day now, other than it was warm enough to eat our picnic outside on a bench. Oh yes, and we looked all over for a letterbox and the only one we found didn’t seem to be in use any more.
He took a few pictures, though. So here, for your enjoyment, is a small and colourful selection: