There is a box in the cupboard with the tide charts from four summers, a ferry ticket with the corner torn, a pressed samphire, and nine photographs of a harbour that no longer looks like that. I am keeping all of it, which my mother says is a hobby.
She is right. But the photographs are developing, slowly, in the way they do now, and each one is a day I have to sit with for a while before I can look at it properly.