While visiting Cornwall we walked to a spot suggested by our friends, I forget the name. Across some fields, down a slope, through a gate and onto a small landing overlooking a cove. From the broad high tide water wooded slopes shaped it into the distance. A single moored boat rocked imperceptibly, just enough for the mainsail cable to periodically slap against the mast. The early evening air was still and warm. That’s it; that was it, all of it, and from it I was sucked dry of all naming, quelled by quietness, rendered mute of thinking. We sat and drank from this well of being, of comatose contentment. Though built to receive small cargoes of granite its nature is as a lover’s spot where generations of heartfelt gasps and their limp dreamy aftermath have marinated the grass and overhangs. To be placed amongst these pungent timeless herbs unexpectedly, in fact disappointedly for I was expecting some high cliff overlook, was a delight. It delighted my soul. It confiscated my mind and all its thoughts of personhood as I smelt and moved within the one being of it all. I will remember it as time moves me inexorably towards it.
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