I headed for the edges, the edges of everything – familiar edges, and strange edges – a journey around the coast that hems us in, a formidable barrier, a strip of possibility.

As an island nation, the British coast is more than a physical boundary. Our 7723 miles of edge keep us in – and as the news continuously reminds us – others out. Brexit. Desperation in rubber dinghies. And then, Covid-19.

The coast is the meeting point for all of us, the end of the road, a melding of all that is British, into a sense of ubiquity. North, South, East, West. There is a similarity in all corners, more of a sense of collective identity than anywhere else. It’s a psychological space, and it seems to capture the very essence of British identity – the great leveller – unifying all of us despite our social division.

For so long, these peripheral areas have felt stuck in a kind of languishing stasis, at odds with progress. They were tarnished by neglect, abandoned by our own people.

But then, during and after the pandemic, these areas became the accidental winners. A tide turned visibly as once-derided B&Bs filled to capacity, and Zoom allowed us to abandon big city life. Puffy wallpaper, greasy Richmond sausages, and budget white kettles were infused with a new sense of life, as we swapped flights for road trips, and rediscovered parochial charm.

The sporadic sounds of copper coins falling off the ledge and clattering into the chute below; the dull, hollow, thud of the slot machine’s buttons; the electronic bleeps as the grab arm gently caresses the soft-toys that you’ve wasted money on and will never win; the trundle of the slush puppy dispenser, and the hum of the soft-serve machines struggling against the heat of the British summer. Simple pleasures, predictable, unwavering.

This is the coastal town, that they forgot to close down. Armageddon, come Armageddon, come.