coast · Sep 17, 2026
Ten Frames from Skerrow Bay
Ten frames from three days in a small coastal town, each with a line on why it made the cut. Gulls, nets, a closed kiosk and the best bus shelter in the country.
Skerrow Bay is the kind of town that shuts for the winter and forgets to say so. I went in the shoulder season, when the shutters were half down and the whole place was thinking.
The ten
The kiosk. Closed, shutters down, painted the dull green of old harbour railings, one gull on the roof. It sets the mood for the series in one frame.
The harbour steps. Wet stone, a rope, long shadows. Quiet, and mostly about texture.
Mrs Olander, 7am. Sweeping her step on Marram Road. She let me take one frame and asked me to take it from behind.
Nets on the wall. Orange against grey. The only strong colour in three days.
The bus shelter. Honestly the best piece of seaside architecture in the county, a concrete fan with a bench inside. Nobody was in it, which suits.
Two men and a boat. They argued about an engine for twenty minutes. I got the minute they stopped.
The arcade, lit. Machines glowing in an empty room. A lonely frame, kept for balance.
A dog on the sea wall. I didn't plan it. Neither did the dog.
The last bus. Taillights in the rain. A full stop.
The kiosk again. Same shutters, different light, a different day. It closes the loop, which is a thing I rarely allow myself.
What got cut
Mostly sunsets. The bay faces the right way for them, and so does every other photographer who has ever been there. I made about forty and kept none.
I also cut an entire morning spent on the beach. It was lovely and I felt clever doing it. The pictures were somewhere else.
On going out of season
A place with nobody in it tells you more about the people who live there. You see what stays open, which door has a light on, who gets up early because the job requires it. The tourists are a rumour. The town is the real thing, and it's tired and fond of itself and slightly embarrassed to be photographed.
There's a particular kindness to that kind of town. Nobody asked what the pictures were for. The woman in the bakery gave me a bun and told me which bench had the best view of nothing, and she meant it as a compliment. I ate the bun on the bench. It was a good view of nothing.
If you're thinking of a coastal trip, go in November. Bring a flask. Talk to Mrs Olander if she's out, but only if she's out.
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