A dense grey mist covered the old seaside town. It’s red brick building appeared to be perspiring. Moisture dripped from every nook and cranny. A particularly fine crescent of Victorian hotels attempted to brighten the scene with their bow windows. Yet they failed. Even the swell of the ocean seemed subdued.
The sound of people going about their daily tasks was absent. A deep slumber appeared to cover the resort. The new king had required a new bank holiday. ‘Hibernation day’ was a total success. Even the usually noisy bandstand was silent.
Footnote: Hibernation is one method of handling the chill of winter, but I usually prefer the erotic warmth of coffee. May I send seasonal greeting to all who follow my wandering attempts at story telling.