A Dunwich Horror

Today being the summer solstice we made the annual pilgrimage at silly o'clock in the morning (which is why I look like death warmed over) to Dunwich beach in Suffolk to watch the sunrise and pay tribute to the Shining One. Being so far east we get to see the sun before pretty much anyone else in Britain.
For absolutely no sensible reason beyond sleep deprivation I have decided to record a tale I have not told in a long while of how the American author H P Lovecraft paid a visit, as a sensitive and some might say overly imaginative young man, to his English relatives - and included a fateful visit to the seaside. Lovecraft is now famous for his eldritch horror stories whilst Marcus Rushbridger, who was mildly more successful with his tales of boys' own adventure in the far flung reaches of Empire, is now quite forgotten and out of print. Doubtless the envious Howard enjoys a smirk from beyond the grave.
All of this is, of course, as absolutely true as any electioneer's promise. Sit still long enough on Dunwich beach and you can hear the church bell toll beneath the waves, and perchance catch a glimpse of one of the tentacled denizens of the dark ocean tugging on the bell rope. The impact of our genteel county on the writings of M R James is well-known. Far fewer appreciate just how much we influenced Lovecraft and, through him, all his emulators.
In due deference to the current owners of the Ship Inn, I should point out that there are no longer rats in the walls.