“At Yesnaby, the sandstone strata soften into whitewash – rippling out with the never-ending cycle of the tide.
Gazing out to the horizon, it might be the edge of the earth.
A shrill scurry of gulls and oyster catchers rises like an alarm. The rush of water swells and ebbs, and swells and swells again: white peaks pile and clip at the cliff’s edges; a deep fizz of borderless noise.
Later, we clamber down – slipping on rocks, then out of clothes. A plunge strips the air from my lungs and puts pins in my temples. I’ve never felt so alive.”