The wind lathes off the surface of the world. The sea bellows as it hammers the earth. Fine particles of sand and sea mist swirl up and grind down the craggy guardians in Cullen Bay. They lean away from the rampaging North Sea winds like pedestrians pulling up their coat collars in the weather. The clouds agitate and froth, reach down with ethereal fingers as if to lend a helping hand. This is a lonely part of the world, though a small town bustles just a mile behind me. I sit in the packed sand, the cold, powdered bodies of yesteryear’s pillars, and look over the surf.
I’m drawn to the places where natural worlds collide: beaches, mountains, river banks, and lake shores. One eats the other just as big fish eat the little ones. Watching the wind and water whittle the rocks is bearing witness to the beliefs of the ancient Celts. Everything moves through cycles of transformation. These sea stacks will be reduced to dust, which will become rock once more. It’s a comforting lesson in a subject no one’s eager to learn. I stand and brush the sand off my butt. The indentations and scuffs I’ve left on the beach will disappear, and in the morning it will glisten white and new.