Slipway closed for a fortnight of repairs
The public slip is shut while the concrete at the foot is relaid.
The news of Saltmarsh, a small town by the water that does not exist: the harbour, the town, its sport and its arts, forty-eight stories deep and pulled twelve at a time.
The public slip is shut while the concrete at the foot is relaid.
Five concerts in five churches, and a ferry crossing in a gale.
A clockmaker from the city spent two days in the tower with the 1894 movement.
A penalty shoot-out at the city ground sends the under-fourteens to the final in September.
The water quality tests came back clean for the third fortnight running.
Forty metres of the harbour's history, painted by the school and the art group.
The repair held on the second attempt; the road reopened by evening.
Six pubs, one league, and a trophy found in a cupboard.
A misprint gives Thursday the twentieth two high waters an hour apart; a correction slip is at the office.
Written from the town's own records, performed where the water reached.
Three thousand two hundred pounds on the day, and the roof can be ordered.
Eighty-one started from the bridge; seventy-nine finished at the mouth.
Boats, tides, the quay and the people who work it.
The council, the high street, the market and the weather.
The rowing club, the Saturday league and the sea swimmers.
The hall, the gallery above the chandlery, the band.
A demonstration: Saltmarsh and its Ledger are invented. Built by plinth from EDN and Markdown; the front's further pages are real pages and are also pulled in place where scripts run, and a click from the front to a story and back swaps the page in place, every address still a real page.