The book of Dutteronomy
When you have a pint in the Harbour Inn or visit the lifeboat museum in Southwold, take a look at the grainy old Edwardian photographs that decorate the walls. Groups of hardbitten men, all whiskers and oilskins, stare back at you. A good quarter of those, who sat for a day tripper to snap their portrait, are members of my family — now all a long time dead.
Our familial clumsy ears are hidden by sou’westers, or stick out from under nautical caps. They are fishermen and lifeboat crew, shoemakers and carpenters. They boast eccentric nicknames and dogs of uncertain breeding skulk at their feet. They are invariably pictured in front of one of the fishermen’s huts that once cluttered the beach. Old fowling pieces can be seen leaning against the tarred walls of these shacks, where their owners would sit
