A place written by Talkie, in Atlas:
A turbulently active landscape, surrounded by a world of stormy dynamic change, lies low along the base of a moorland hill, where streams converge to an estuary. It stops the eye at little more than a league's distance; at close quarters it becomes a kind of welter, grey and green, a welter of waters, wolds, and woods, with human dwellings dotted in between. Straight ahead, far down the tidal Float, a sea-port stands white among its warehouses. On either hand the shores dip steeply, and close in, sharply pencilling the winding river to a point of view; beyond which, bending and broadening, it fades into plainness, and leaves the landscape tame. Gray piles of shipping line the quays; and further back, the town spreads upwards towards the hills. On either hand, beyond the plain, the hills rise steeply — green, smooth, pastoral hills, that climb to heathery moorlands. All along their feet, and all along the margin of the Float, runs a ribbon of white road; and here and there white country houses peep out from among trees. In between the houses, fields stretch upwards to the heather. The fields are green and fertile, sometimes cultivated, sometimes left waste, but everywhere alive with grazing sheep; and the whole landscape has an air of rural peace. But peace and rural quiet are not the predominant characteristics. The note of the place is energy — strong, busy, manifold energy. Engines are blowing and ringing along the quay; black funnels are belching out smoke; and steamers are arriving and departing all day long. By night, the shine of lights from the warehouses and the sheds falls upon the waters; and along the shores are bustle and moving shadows. Under the hanging hills, factories line both banks of the stream; and the hoarse din of machinery comes up from them ceaselessly, by day and night. TheColliery alone sounds like a hive of industry, hums, snorts, and roars from year's end to year's end. The life of the place is in the water and on the water — an indissoluble life of trade and traffic. On the banks, the chief life is inland; agricultural, pastoral, domestic — a life that has little to do with the turmoil of the Float, except where the highways cross it, and where the dwelling houses stand.
A turbulently active landscape, surrounded by a world of stormy dynamic change, lies low along the base of a moorland hill, where streams converge to an estuary. It stops the eye at little more than a league's distance; at close quarters it becomes a kind of welter, grey and green, a welter of waters, wolds, and woods, with human dwellings dotted in between. Straight ahead, far down the tidal Float, a sea-port stands white among its warehouses. On either hand the shores dip steeply, and close in, sharply pencilling the winding river to a point of view; beyond which, bending and broadening, it fades into plainness, and leaves the landscape tame. Gray piles of shipping line the quays; and further back, the town spreads upwards towards the hills. On either hand, beyond the plain, the hills rise steeply — green, smooth, pastoral hills, that climb to heathery moorlands. All along their feet, and all along the margin of the Float, runs a ribbon of white road; and here and there white country houses peep out from among trees. In between the houses, fields stretch upwards to the heather. The fields are green and fertile, sometimes cultivated, sometimes left waste, but everywhere alive with grazing sheep; and the whole landscape has an air of rural peace. But peace and rural quiet are not the predominant characteristics. The note of the place is energy — strong, busy, manifold energy. Engines are blowing and ringing along the quay; black funnels are belching out smoke; and steamers are arriving and departing all day long. By night, the shine of lights from the warehouses and the sheds falls upon the waters; and along the shores are bustle and moving shadows. Under the hanging hills, factories line both banks of the stream; and the hoarse din of machinery comes up from them ceaselessly, by day and night. TheColliery alone sounds like a hive of industry, hums, snorts, and roars from year's end to year's end. The life of the place is in the water and on the water — an indissoluble life of trade and traffic. On the banks, the chief life is inland; agricultural, pastoral, domestic — a life that has little to do with the turmoil of the Float, except where the highways cross it, and where the dwelling houses stand.