Leigh-On-Sea

A small fishing boat cuts through the calm of the emerald tinted water of the Thames Estuary, frothy white waves spill away from the vessel as it gently heads toward the fishmongers, patiently waiting on the marina for the days catch.

The gentle hum of the boats engine muffled by the sound of the numerous seagulls ducking, diving and swooping in the hope of a discarded mackerel or a hapless crab wriggling back to the freedom of the cold salty water.

A pastel pale sun steadily beginning to appear behind the boat, casting the first days light on the distant town in the next county, its industrial towers bellowing steam into the fresh morning air.

As the boat pulls into the small fishing marina, a quiet hub of activity tenderly ensues. The various fishmongers greet the wind battered fisherman and prepare to take their fresh glistening haul.

A seal pops its head up above the waterline, watching on eagerly as the odd fish falls from the large boxes of the transported catch. It inhales a breath of brisk air, and retreats back beneath the safety of the gentle waves, it's wet whiskers disappearing into the murky water as it delicately slips away out of view.

As the sun gets higher, the bustling hive of staff from the small marina bars and pubs place out their chairs and tables. Preparing for a busy day of local people soaking up the first rays of the years sun and feasting on the fisherman's catch.

Not so far away, as the tide begins to recede, the mud flats take shape. Spiralling patterns forming as the thin spindly channels of water, moving with the tide, cut through the silt. Resting seals lazily watch on as flocks of small seabirds twist and extort in abstract patterns, like a plume of smoke, living and breathing, chirping to one another. They scatter as a diving peregrine falcon swoops down like a silent missile, hoping to catch one of the flock off guard. It misses, frustratingly flapping off toward the town.

A train leaves the station, local commuters to London look on through the windows, swapping this beautiful little fishing town for the busy, crowded and smokey air of the capital, for the rest of the day. They return later as the sun sets, the moon rises and the cold green tide covers the mudflats. Its careful waves displacing the shells and sand from the small slither of beach. A pair of little egrets disturbing the silt below with their delicate feet, sharply reacting to any startled fish or invertebrate to steal a late night meal.

I was born here and spent most of my life here. I've moved away from time to time, for work and other commitments, but the smell of the sea always brings me back to Leigh, my hometown.