Trace your finger to the edge of the page. Great Yarmouth is there, about to bleed into the sea.
Off on the right hand side, hugging up against the grid lines or the frayed fabric of the cover. Forever on edge.
A careless crop could cut us off once and for all. Britannia might look back inshore but the map has us facing the Roads and the shifting Sands and Doggerbank.
Scroby Elbow 