Megan Hoyle

It’s sunny, the rock I’m sat on is warm and I can see pretty far. It’s a view point so there are a few people milling around. The rock is just off the path and huge, wide and flat it slopes into an abyss of cliff and trees. I can hear the seals baying on the rocks at the bottom, it’s too steep and wooded to see them. I can see the rocky peninsula petering out into the sea, but the seals are must be closer to the land. Most of the view is sea, it’s glittering as the sun hits it, breezy. I can see the mainland in front and to the right, quite close, it’s wooded I think, I can see where the coastal road cuts through, but what sticks out most are the houses. They’re scattered and few; painted blue, pink, yellow and white. Vey Irish (can’t see the fuchsia hedges but I know they’re there). I am consciously committing the whole place to memory, staring and digesting the view. I want to be able to remember it.