Whitehead is one of those towns that feels ready-made for painting. Pastel houses. Fresh sea air. The railway heritage running right through its centre.

At the station, sea thrift and fennel push between the stones. On the promenade, the tide moves with steady, determined rhythm. Children asked how I decide what colour the sea is.

“It’s every colour pretending to be blue,” I told them. 

An older man eventually sat beside me. After a few moments he said:

“My wife waved at every train that passed. Every single one.”

He didn’t say much else, but he didn’t have to. 

I added two small figures into the distance of my canvas - a quiet nod to his memory. 

Whitehead reminded me that small places often hold the biggest stories.
Not loud ones - steady ones.