It was the kind of day begging to be walked during. So we did. Up the Down and back. By turns brisk and dawdly, with a pause at the top and a detour to avoid the cows. Hearty, autumny, and just the right length.
It was a fine walk. We didn’t need the fifteen rooks hopping about on the grass ahead of us; the ravens gronking and grawing just out of sight below the cliff’s edge; the meadow pipits bouncing and parachuting and zi-zi-zi-ing ebulliently about our heads; the moment when our shadows lengthened to the point of absurdity, inviting a Giacometti-esque shadow selfie; the Spitfire announcing itself with a deep throaty drone before appearing high up against the clear blue sky and flying past us to the end of the island and out of our sight.
We didn’t need them; but they helped.
We went to the top. Some of us climbed onto the trig point and posed, King of the World for a moment. Some, less athletic, were happy enough to relish the panorama.
And then, before returning to the car, there was little left to do but sit on the grass and watch the sun descend blazing into the mirrored sea.
