During the day, it is great to stand on a pier and stare down into the water, trying to catch a glimpse of a fish swimming by or testing how deep the eye can penetrate. At night, however, the water beneath turns into a dark, reflective surface that refuses to show anything below. I remember sitting on a pier in the dark with my brother during our yearly vacations. Occasionally, the surface would break without warning, probably due to predators chasing a school of fish, giving us a sudden jolt.

A pier is a simple structure, an extension of land into uncertain territory. A very human attempt to move a little farther. The vanguard of land advancing beyond the shoreline.

There is something almost magical in standing on a scaffold-like structure above the water. Almost like walking on its surface. While a boat submits to the instability of the water, a pier insists on being land, holding its ground in a gesture of resistance.

In Victorian Britain and beyond, piers that began as landing stages for steamships became places where people walked out over the sea simply to linger. Some extended for more than two kilometres, housing restaurants, theatres and fairground attractions.

Even with such elaborate construction, piers remain vulnerable. Built largely of wood and exposed to constant movement, storms and corrosion, many Victorian piers have disappeared. Even as they stand, they retain the character of temporary structures. Looking at Google Maps, I see that the little pier my brother and I used to sit on has now fallen into the sea.