LINES of geometry and solitude. The black line of saltmarsh meeting the water, the grey band of the estuary, the horizontal far shore of Kent, the arc of the wintered sky, the decurved beak of the curlew crying its own name into the silence. Downstream on the vanishing plane of bleak water, the giant cranes of DP World London Gateway, metal praying mantis. Looking along the graffiti-strewn, two-yard-high concrete sea wall: in each direction as far as the human eye can see, no one. Not one soul.
Flat water, flat land; the estuary foreshore the lowest point of the landmass. A low point. A wasteland of saltmarsh. The grass prostrate before the wind and, down in the dark twisted creeks, a hint of gathering mist. In the unkept field behind the sea wall, piebald horses of uncertain pedigree. No colour, no warmth. A vast panorama in monochrome.
The Thames estuary in November. A confirmation of desolation. You will never be so alone as walking its edge in winter, the tide-departed faecal sludge riven by rivulets and studded by detritus: a bent bike dead on its side, discarded shoes, washed-up bottles devoid of messages. Along the estuary of the Thames, where the primitiveness of the environment is intensified by the impersonality of industry, with its petrochemical works and gravels. The estuary of the Thames: where the wildness of Nature is intensified by the proximity of a populous capital city. London is a mere 10 miles away as the gull flies.
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