Monday, 7 November 2011
A horn that can only sing to my eyes.
By three p.m. the November sun has hammered itself into a thin sheet of gold leaf that rests on top of damp, bent-over grasses. Beaches that sit at the bottom of green cliffs with scuttle-down foot paths are already pulling the waves up around them and settling in for a long sleep in the early evening shadows.
Even as the light changes so quickly there are odd moments of birds suspended in the air just over head. Their wings flap hard but they hang in the same spot, unable to advance against the wind. The earth is whirling through space, but we have paused for a second.
In the coastal hills that roll just above the city, a huge horse walked over and pushed its enormous forehead up against me, with quiet half-closed eyes. Down on a rocky little beach in a craggy place, an old sea freight container sits covered in layers of paint and rust, full of secrets.
We crawled up into a rocky place below the lighthouse, with our feet hanging out over the cold waves and just enough room to sit, and as the sun set we drank hot milk tea from a flask and ate bannocks. A lonely seal peered up at us, and the city spread down the coast in roaring lights as orange as the sky.