Through a Lens

Liam’s harrowing experience with the gull on the beach on the third day of this nine-day solitary hike around the coastal footpath had hung heavy on his mind. Now, he could appreciate the gulls' circling white beauty and the relaxing sound of their collective cawing once again.

Standing in the late-afternoon September sunlight a few feet from the cliff edge where the coastal footpath turned right, following an enormous ocean inlet a considerable distance inland, Liam was taken by the magnificence of the towering dark grey cliffs and the rolling white and blue waves washing over jagged black rocks spiking from the rough ocean surface, the huge waves crashing hard against the cliffs at the far end, the deep sound like something echoing from a long-forgotten dream.

On the other side, near the top of a steep incline that led up to where the cliff faced out onto the ocean, stood the ruins of an old tin mine, the light-grey stonework of the rectangular main building and, attached to one corner, the round chimney, contrasting with the darker grey of the cliffs below. Piles of masonry were strewn around the base.

The fat September sun, hanging over the ocean to the left of the cliff opposite, was comfortably warm, having finally driven away the thick morning mist by around midday.

Considering everything, Liam felt relatively good for the first time in days, having, for the past couple of miles of stunning coastal scenery, been able to bury the all-encompassing sadness of his breakup with Sabrina. They had met only three months ago, but he had fallen so quickly and so deeply in love with her.

Sabrina: the girl he had met towards the end of the second semester at uni, with her lovely smile and engaging ways, her glinting eyes and gentle laugh, her scintillating intelligence and passion for life.

Having recently turned nineteen, Liam had had girlfriends but had never been in love. He was surprised to find it to be not a completely pleasant experience. Liam had felt exhilarated, that nothing was beyond his grasp, that love was everything. But, at the same time, those feelings imprisoned him. He could not escape them for a second, preventing him from concentrating on his course and the literature he loved. And there was a constant twisting tension in his tummy that often could be almost unbearable.

Now that Sabrina had left him, his grief was all-consuming. He dreaded going back to uni, dreaded still being unable to concentrate on his work, and worse, occasionally bumping into Sabrina.

Now, watching circling and swooping gulls stark against the dark cliffs opposite, bright sunlight showing off the brilliant white of their solid bodies and elegant wings, he felt relatively okay.

Liam grabbed his SLR camera where it hung from his neck on its strap, raised it quickly to his eye, adjusted the zoom lens to bring the birds closer, and waited for a gull to fly directly towards him, the dark cliffs making a dramatic backdrop; quickly focussed; and gently squeezed the shutter release whilst breathing out slowly.

He lowered the camera, pleased with how he had captured the gulls, the gull in the foreground creating excellent depth of field. He was on the seventh day of his nine-day hike and had used at least one roll of thirty-six exposures each day. He would spend a fortune having them all developed when he was back home.

As well as reading an abundance of short stories and poetry, he had always been artistic, writing his own short stories and poetry and creating the occasional oil painting, which he would hide in a drawer lest someone think him unhinged. Now, he had discovered the wonderful world of photography.

Using almost all his savings, he had treated himself to a single-lens reflex camera. He loved capturing light, shape, and colour without spending hours in front of an easel – just a minute or two, or even seconds, to compose the shot and select the aperture, the shutter speed being automatic (which he sometimes overrode). He loved how you could change reality: make the background look closer to the foreground with a telephoto lens or make it look further away with a wide-angle lens, the wide-angle also creating a wider field of view, much like a cinema movie. He had experimented with making things out of focus or incredibly sharp and creating a surreal effect with harsh grain from a high ASA film, but he knew there was much more to learn about the exciting world of photography.

Liam had been unnerved by the gull at the train station upon arrival and then traumatised by the horror of the third day. Still, he had enjoyed this solitary holiday despite the deep sadness that engulfed him and the guilt that haunted him over that poor gull.

He had wondered at the beauty of the coastline. The rolling and winding coastal footpath of hard earth, grass, gravel, and slippery grey rock was bordered by wild grasses of saturated green and sun-scorched yellow, bright purple heather, and multifarious wild flowers he could not name. There were green and gold fields and hills to his right; the beautiful blue, endless ocean out to his left; magnificent bays and headlands ahead.

Liam loved feeling cosy in his tent at night. This feeling was enhanced considerably when rain pattered the flysheet or, even better, when heavy rain pounded the canvas, the relentless drumming giving him more of a sense of man against nature, of the survival experience, the sound, for a long while, exciting, but eventually comforting, serenading him to sleep.

But now, he was feeling worn out, not so much from the hiking but from the nauseating emptiness left by Sabrina. They had meant to be on this hiking holiday together and had planned the whole holiday together. But they had broken up just the week before, and it had been too short notice for any of his friends to accompany him. Every time he reached some civilisation, especially when he spied the bright red of a phone box, Liam thought about phoning Sabrina, but if the call produced another argument, that would destroy any enjoyment he was gaining from this holiday. He gave phone boxes a wide berth.

Often, he imagined Sabrina hiking beside him, chatting with him, smiling, laughing, and being, as he was, in awe of the coastline’s beauty. Sometimes, he caught himself talking out loud to her as though she were there.

Three days from now, he would head home on the train, a day’s journey. He dreaded being back home, knowing that his summer job as a lifeguard at the local swimming pool would not keep him from his deep sense of loss.

His rucksack and tent (one of those new dome-shaped ones that needed no upright poles inside), bought new for this holiday (having always stayed in hotels with his parents on all previous holidays), were beginning to feel heavy, so he headed off the path, crossing a few feet of grass and heather to a large, knee-high, flat-topped white rock close to the cliff’s edge. After a short food break, he would take more pictures from this vantage point.

He placed his rucksack on the rock and sat beside it, leaving his camera hanging from his neck, always ready to capture the moment. The view could not have been better: the vast ocean out to his left, rolling waves of deep blues and greens travelling fast up the inlet, crashing bright white, with muffled booms, against the wall of cliffs at the far end, creating towering spouts of hissing sea spray shooting up past the clifftops.

Considering his many stops to take photos of this awe-inspiring place, Liam estimated it would take him a couple of hours to traverse this enormous inlet. It would then be sunset and time to pitch his tent quickly, the race against darkness thrilling him once again.

Tomorrow, he would be back on his dwindling supply of nuts and chocolate, but now, he took from his rucksack a bottle of water and the second pack of sandwiches he had bought from the little shop in the cove where he had spent the night, which now lay almost a day’s hike back along the coastal path. He had not seen another hiker since he was more than a couple of miles from the cove, not even a single cottage or farm between there and here.

The cove had been small, slender, protected on each side by steep hills of thick grass, moss, and rock leading to the clifftops above. There was a scattering of cosy cottages, all white walls and thick grey tiles. There was no campsite, so he pitched his tent on a grass embankment next to the tiny harbour. Liam enjoyed lying in his cosy sleeping bag, listening to the deep, dark sound of heavy waves crashing against the sturdy harbour walls.

Once again, there would be no campsite tonight. Liam would try to find a suitable place, but if it came to it, he would pitch his tent reasonably close to the old tin mine for extra protection from wind and rain. He had already slept miles from nowhere three times on this holiday, pitching his tent wherever he could find a flat enough piece of ground, sometimes having first to remove a few small rocks. Tonight, he might be clearing a space amongst fallen masonry.

When sleeping on the dark and lonely coastal path, he would lie awake, trying to frighten himself by thinking about the scariest short stories he had read or written himself. He would also think of new terrifying stories, his imagination running wild, giving him that cold-dark thrill. He would tell himself that if some evil came for him, he was all alone. There was no one to help...just the lonely clifftops ...the dark, endless fields and rocky hills...the vast, impervious ocean.

Dark pleasures such as these gave him the most release from the crushing sadness that he felt would never leave him.