We walked through the dunes and saw them, all spread out, staring to sea. Antony Gormley’s Another Place, 100 iron men standing amongst the elements. The sun was setting, a band of pink below deep blue streaks of cloud on the horizon. The sand was dimpled and swirled, stuttered into bands by the tide, and the water left by its retreat shone in the dusk
We stood by a man submerged in sand to his hips, then walked down, to where the water was still lying in channels across the sticky beach. We jumped across and went toward the tide line, seeking statues. There were so many, stretching as far as the eye could see in both directions. I didn’t have my glasses on, and I couldn’t tell which far away shapes were statues and which were real people. We found a sea wash ball of whelk eggs and I picked it up and squeezed it. We passed a patch of mud in great slippery slabs, its edges carved into curves. Underfoot, razor clams shattered and I picked up a tiny shard of red plastic. The wind farm on the horizon was back lit pink as the sun dropped. We stopped by another iron figure, this one red and purple with wriggling layers of rust.
An oyster catcher peeped repeatedly and a flock of small gulls took off, flying low above the glittering mud, their shadows following them as they landed again, closer to the tide line. We reached another statue, this one thick with acorn barnacles, tight packed like tentacles or a hundred hungry mouths. Over the iron man’s head and shoulders he wore a flowing mane of green. Each strand was distinct but it wasn’t soft to touch; it had been fused solid by the pressure of saltwater.
We walked seaward until the sand became sucky, our feet slipping, the ground unstable. There were still iron figures in the distance, staring out across the ocean to where low blue mountains hulked on the horizon. It felt like we could have walked into the ocean for hours without ever finding the last of them.
Bonnie Radcliffe 