Op igen

I bunden er der ikke andet at gøre end at vende om og klatre op igen. Opad går det langsommere end nedad, og det tager mere ud af hende, end hun havde regnet med, og hun stopper to gange og lader begge gange, som om hun stopper for at nyde udsigten.

At the bottom there is nothing to do but turn around and climb back up. Going up is slower than coming down and takes rather more of her than she expected, and she stops twice, and pretends both times that she is stopping to look at the view.

På et af de våde nederste trin sidder et albueskæl i en lav fordybning i stenen. Fordybningen har nøjagtig form som dets skal, for det er vendt tilbage til netop det sted i årevis og har slebet sig en plads der. Om natten går det ud for at spise, vandrer et par trin rundt i mørket, og hver morgen finder det hjem til et hul, der passer til det og intet andet.

On one of the wet lower steps there is a limpet, sitting in a shallow dip in the stone. The dip is the exact shape of its shell, because it has been coming back to that same spot for years and grinding itself a seat there. It goes out at night to eat, wanders a few steps in the dark, and every morning finds its way home to a hole that fits it and nothing else.

Fra toppen er lyset nu drejet nok rundt til at vise øerne ude i strædet. De er en anden verden. Hvor denne klippe er bleg kalksten fuld af huller og grotter, er de øer lyserød granit, stablet i enorme glatte kampesten, som noget en kæmpe har efterladt, og derude lever der firben i et antal, man ikke ville tro.

From the top, the light has come round enough to show the islands out in the strait. They are a different world. Where this cliff is pale limestone full of holes and caves, those islands are pink granite, piled up in huge smooth boulders like something left behind by a giant, and lizards live out there in numbers you would not believe.

Polly sidder på voldmuren med vinden, der kommer op over kanten, og kigger ned i sprækken i klippen en sidste gang. Næsten to hundrede trin, hugget med hånden, ned gennem en klippe til en kop koldt vand. Hun sætter kursen nordpå langs kysten med solen på sin venstre side.

Polly sits on the rampart with the wind coming up over the edge and looks down at the slot in the rock one more time. Nearly two hundred steps, hand cut, going down through a cliff to a cup of cold water. She sets off north along the coast with the sun on her left.