Ropewalk

Pitched low and tarred black, a roof of boards covers a shed so long and straight that its far end dissolves into dust and dimness. Deep pale sand covers the floor, raked into wide sparring rings that repeat one after another down the whole length of the walk. Iron rope-twisting wheels are still bolted to the walls at intervals, spokes black with old grease, and hooks and tackle hang from the rafters. A line of small square windows high on one side throws pale patches across the sand, each one hazy with drifting dust. Near the entrance a timber rail divides the sparring floor from a walkway of worn planks, scuffed grey where boots have waited. Tall double doors at the seaward end stand open on the quay, letting in a cold breath of tar, hemp and salt.