You near Ness from far inland: first you hit pine, then you hit sand, then the sky goes grey from the glare of the sea.
Out there then. Lonely, flat, old. East wind like a knife. Spartan, cold. Eerie for its absence of feature. The seabirds cry, the spit moves in the storm like a creature.
The gulls, the black-backs the ghosts. (The gulls, the black-backs the ghosts. The gulls, the black-backs the ghosts. The gulls, the black-backs the ghosts.)
Can you hear something?