The Fleet

Fleet

Almost hidden. Along the path, beside the cottages, parallel to the cobbled road, the sunken old church was hidden from view. The bend in the road took most drivers, walkers, and the occasional cyclist, past the new church to the camping and caravan park that huddled, straggling in knots along the thin strip of land that separated the folding waves of the fields from the lagoon, the shifting shingle of the bar, and beyond, the empty skies and further still, the sullen sea.

They walked to the gate, lifted the latch and followed the footpath hand in hand, under the glistening thousands of silver green leaves that rustled drily in the late afternoon wind.

The pathway was firm underfoot, the sand compacted, with a thin layer of grass, moss and clipped clover, that led them deeper into the dusk and the looming nave of the abandoned place of former worship.

The flood of 1824 had breached the wall of shingle, the nine mile scimitar of moving stones that protected the lagoon from the channel. The weathered headstones pointed like blunted fingers at the low passing clouds. The wind blew again in great sighs, blustery whispers, moaning gently to the forgotten dead.

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