IT WAS dusk on a summer’s day on the south coast.

On the whole it had been pretty standard for this time of year – bright, slightly warm, slightly wet.

And as the light dimmed, most headed indoors, some to the safety of their homes, others to the comfort of a pub.‎ But on this night, a group of about 30 people gathered on a wooden bridge which crossed a seemingly slow moving river.

There they just stood. Silent. Staring.

Their faces were in shadow, as the light of a nearly full moon struggled to shine through the thick moving clouds.

In the distance were a series a flashing hazard lights, from a fleet of parked cars on a grim 1960s flyover.

Beyond that a gothic college stood imperiously within the South Downs, lit up by its custodians for all to see. But the focus of the group on the bridge was not on this, nor on each other.

It was on a little flickering candle in a jam jar at their feet.

They came to mourn, to think, to‎ find answers to a million and one questions running through their heads.

Why? How? What if? And no matter how long they stared, the questions remain unanswered.

They were stood on a crossing which for centuries had been at the heart of their town. People used to pay to cross it.

And despite the town changing greatly, when the heart was ripped out of Shoreham, this is where people came to pay their respects.

At their feet lay hundreds of bouquets of flowers, stretching the full length of the bridge. Nestled within them were flags, candles, football shirts, even a half-filled glass of pink champagne.

‎Every single item had its own individual meaning. But combined, they became a symbolic tribute to the 11 people who died when a jet being flown for fun caused a great deal of devastation.

A week ago the mood had been so different.

For the past 26 years, the annual airshow put Shoreham on the map.

It was the time of year when crowds in their tens of thousands flocked to the town on the river to see magnificent men and women in their flying machines.

Business boomed.

But it was always about more than money, it was about pride – pride in the event, pride in their airport but above all pride in their town.

Last Saturday was no different. The sun was shining, people were in high spirits and eyes were to the skies.

Then tragedy struck.

For those who witnessed it, that moment will stay in their memories forever.

In the immediate aftermath, the whole town was numb, shocked to the core. The normally thriving high street was eerily quiet.

Restaurants and pubs remained open. But the usual hum of chatter and laughter was muted.

Most decided to retreat to their homes, surrounded by friends and family. Sunday was the same, as heavy rain fell.

Usually this would have got people moaning about the English weather during summer.

But the gripes and groans of everyday life remained locked up as emotions of a different, more raw sort bubbled inside.

Come Monday and it was back to work for most.

But rather than the blues normally associated with the start of the weekday, the shock of Saturday’s events lingered like a black cloud.

‎In the town centre, everything seemed to be on half-time. Scurrying was replaced with a more sombre tone.

‎And the usual weaving traffic turned into a long slow procession through the high street, in part due to the closure of the A27. Congestion of this sort normally leads to a chorus of horns and frustration.

But people sat in the queues in silence, aware that their woes were nothing compared to some. Their thoughts with the victims, to those who lost people to the tragedy, some of whom we still don’t know.

As the week progressed, the sombre mood turned into action. The community mobilised, determined to find some good in an awful situation.

Attention turned to the hundreds of emergency service personnel who were still at the A27, trying to piece together what happened.

Cakes were baked, socks knitted, hot drinks provided – all as a thank you for those who are simply doing their job but had their eyes opened to unspeakable things.

‎Others looked to remembering the victims. From singing songs to tattooing black rings on people’s skins, the fundraising efforts were wide and varied.

Thousands signed books of condolences, many more thousands of pounds were donated to a fund to support the victims.

‎And tonight (saturday) the community will stand together on another bridge, the Adur Ferry Bridge, for a candlelit vigil to those lost.

It’s a fitting place for such a ceremony, not least because it brings together two parts of Shoreham – the beach and the town.

‎And the theme will be to simply stop, think and remember while standing together with those that live beside you.

These are dark days for Shoreham. And all its residents can do is look for a glimmer of light in the darkness that has descended on them.