Climbing Back Up

At the bottom there is nothing to do but turn around and climb back up. Going up is slower than coming down and takes rather more of her than she expected, and she stops twice, and pretends both times that she is stopping to look at the view.

On one of the wet lower steps there is a limpet, sitting in a shallow dip in the stone. The dip is the exact shape of its shell, because it has been coming back to that same spot for years and grinding itself a seat there. It goes out at night to eat, wanders a few steps in the dark, and every morning finds its way home to a hole that fits it and nothing else.

From the top, the light has come round enough to show the islands out in the strait. They are a different world. Where this cliff is pale limestone full of holes and caves, those islands are pink granite, piled up in huge smooth boulders like something left behind by a giant, and lizards live out there in numbers you would not believe.

Polly sits on the rampart with the wind coming up over the edge and looks down at the slot in the rock one more time. Nearly two hundred steps, hand cut, going down through a cliff to a cup of cold water. She sets off north along the coast with the sun on her left.