It’s the last day of our holiday and it’s still raining. We visit Baggy Point, a rocky outcrop reaching into the roaring wind and surf. Fighting our way through the gale we flex our umbrellas against the whipping rain and come to a bench near the promontory. Surrounded by heather and gorse it looks onto the cliff edge, which is lined with grass and dotted with pink thrift. Beyond, the sea and sky are sandwiched together in different shades of grey. I look at the bench and see a small metal plaque with some lines engraved in it. Leaning close I can just make out the words:
Rest here beloved in your new life
As oft you did with me when in the old
The majesty and power of which you are now part
And I will come and ease my aching heart
Underneath this plaque is another, marking the death of the writer some ten years after his wife. I hope there was someone to comfort him in the years between. I hope he had children and that they visit this spot and sit on the bench in kinder weather, thinking about them both. That’s what I’d like to imagine, anyway.
We turn towards town and I brace myself against the gusting wind, gripping my daughter’s hand tightly.