In the sweep of the lighthouse you see the stretch of water separating you from the other coast, unlinked to this remote shore, where 20 years of memories come crashing down, ever changing, but linked by a thread of friendship, welcomed by an extant ritual which you make yours, with myriad gradients of feeling and emotion, felt deeply on these walks on the edge of kairos.
Always looking for a new way to tackle the terroir, these very familiar grounds that reveal something new about us, about you, The camaraderie of music and excess that takes you rolling down hills, all too aware of cliff edges ahead, to ascending, almost, from rocky outcrops, when the wind picks up your coat.
And the gorse. What to say about its rambles? The possibility of a revelation if only you can clear the next outcrop, needles stinging your ankles, pricking your very core as you fall right into it, only to get up and trudge along anxiously, to peak at the red light, where you realise you’re not alone, the rest of the posse close by, manic, ensuring no one gets left behind.
Just one more minute to take in the view, the dark night.
You have many maps, but what use are they? Their folds contain no meaning. No laughter in the coppice. No evening light, laying softly on restful slopes. No wide eyes, gleaming in the green glossed night.
This is terrain that can be surveyed only through walking, delineated by the cartography of perception; muscle and organs repurposed to augur, clinometer and theodolite.
A place where memory, topography and ritual entwine, where the mind dissolves without a sound, bubbling in sensate effervescence.
This is every place and no place.
Scatter me there
if ever I die.