It looked like a big red sign with nothing to say, but thankfully I paid attention and headed down towards the river to take a look.
Wrecked and abandoned boats in all their weather-beaten glory leaned on mud that held inky blackness in the deep slanting heels of footprints. The colours were like a carnival, a feast.
Sea sweepings, rubbish, chucked aways, river surgings, thrown over boards and just plain lost. Gritty mud held ropes and mesh, nets and broken floats, bolts and hinges rusted to blistering bunions, crushed plastic, a row of old telegraph poles, unknown things reminding you of something you can't quite make out and don't want to touch, a book flopped back at this page.
The camera is happy happy, doesn't know what to snap first, would hate to miss anything, but knows it's overwhelmed and frantic. And all I want to do is stop and sit on that wall, legs dangling over the edge and just gaze at this strange scene, watch the wet slip back from mud that reflects nothing.
Across the river, the sun on my back, I find a place to sit and gaze at the sea-bitten joists of old huts, a rowing boat giving in to algae and a strangely sculptural black circle that looks like it dreams of being a bottle containing orange sand.