Riffing on a melancholy trip along the Suffolk coast, this book expands into a grand meditation on the past
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This spring I went to Southwold for the first time. I went with my parents and during the journey there was some discussion as to why I hadn’t been before. Their home (my old one) is in Norwich, roughly a 45-minute drive from the Suffolk coastal town, and the two of them visit often. Surely I must have gone too, they said, if only just the once? Perhaps I had been and simply forgotten about it, after all it wouldn’t have been the first time.
It’s true that memory is not my strongest suit, but still I disputed my parents’ assertion. I may forget people’s names in the middle of a conversation, appointments made only recently and on one occasion even my PIN number, but I don’t forget trips. And I certainly don’t forget trips to destinations where I would have been in line for a free lunch. Southwold was very much such a destination.
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