Along the eastern shore of Britain the line between sea and land has
been sketched many times and any particular stroke we might consider now
as definitive tells us more about our place in time than about the
place’s place in space. Up and down the coast are fields re-claimed from
the brine, drained, each one a little victory in a guerrilla campaign
against the tide, fought for and barricaded in, fortified with bank and
stone work. The war, of course, was actually lost millennia ago when
climate change had worked its assault on the northern ice and a distant
frozen fortification was undermined - releasing a tsunami across
Doggerland, our Palaeolithic Atlantis, the fabled land bridge across
which the first hominids had walked here. Since then the German Ocean,
the North Sea, has provided our moat – a stretch of water separating the
British archipelago from the continent to which it belongs.