Approach piers to Breydon Bridge

There's a mood, switching. On one horizon the Lilliputian outline of Great Yarmouth, on another the rackety-tack railway stretching away on a sight line. In between there is this immutable babble of birds, this flat expanse of marsh, pasture and watery lands endlessly hunkering down among the impermanence of decay. This is no landscape clamouring for adoration. Sometime tucked up, sometime wide open, it gives and takes with equal voracity, willing to be brought to life by a single ligger, dyke, willow tree or windmill. As with the life blood of it's tides both land and water change on a flicker of wind before settling back in to ageing anonymity.