
The Jetty
Timber decking on black water, the far shore a rumour in the fog. The jetty is the only way in and the only way out, and it is kept like someone expects visitors. Rope, fresh tar, a ladder rung replaced recently enough to show pale wood. Beyond the rail, the station waits with its lights on: working, watchful, and not yet expecting you to knock.
Out There
The chart marks four wrecks between here and the heads, and the light exists because of the worst of them. On a clear night you can count the navigation marks from the gallery. On a night like this, the station is the only fixed point that answers.















