Standing on an isolated peninsula of land, mountains coated in fresh snow lurk in the distance and the cries of gulls high above echo around the bay. Not often visited by humans there is a feeling of desolation and loss. The wind wraps itself around the human form even in the warm morning sunshine. Fingers of decay attempting to take a grip.
The fishing shed is old. Once a two story building sitting on the shore line. With wellies hanging from the ceiling and nets hanging from the attic rafters high above the sea below it is slowly slipping. Piece by piece, the shed is crumbling into the frigid blue Atlantic waters.
An attempt to slow its descent has been made. A steel wire fixed to the small cliff is all that holds the shed to the rigidity of the land. All the while the cable holds the majority of the shed and its contents are held secure, the storms nibbling at the edges, eroding the strips of silvering birch piece by piece.
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