I'm sitting here with the splendid beams of a late summer sunset spreading across my page, and a raging wind billowing in from the sea. This little bench is a thoughtful spot I have visited frequently over the past month, but this evening is the last time I will see it awash with gloaming light, I am leaving the Channel Islands tomorrow. The ocean is all aglitter. As I've explored this tiny island it seems to me that the sea, not the land, has the greatest character here. It rushes into caves, plays around great monoliths, warms itself on sun-baked black pebbles, and ensures that there is never really silence, it is always crashing and chattering just a stone's throw away.
But there are other companions here at my thoughtful spot this evening, besides the happy sea and the regal light, there are those most homely and peculiarly comforting of creatures, the cows. They meander and mumble and lift their long-lashed eyes as I pass by, contemplatively. They are gentle, and they make me think of home.
God made the petreous rocks, the arboreal trees...
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