On top of a hill right on the shore stands an old coastguard's look-out hut. (That's what I assume it to be. If it isn't, then some of what follows is rubbish. Some isn't.) It's built in rendered brick and concrete. In England, anywhere, it would smell of urine. Here, it doesn't. Obviously, it's a great spot to look out from. From many angles, the roof appears to come off the curve of the hill at a satisfying tangent.
The coastguards' huts around Filey and Scarborough and Bridlington and Whitby, towns where I spent all my childhood summer holidays, were a sombre reminder of the serious power of the sea. They were guard emplacements. So it may be that I automatically elevate the significance of any image containing a coastguard's look-out. If so, welcome to my world.
It's not stretching meaning to call this sculptural. The geometrics of the form are pretty pure and the tones sit well against the landscape. It looks good.
If this were all, I'd leave it at that but it's not. Down at the bottom of the hill, eight rusting stumps stick out of concrete footings whose colours are now indistinguishable from the stones around; they are both clad in the same mosses and lichens and other crusty stuffs. What are they?
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