At Lands End, somnambulistic Japanese tourists in rain hoods trundle about and assemble in clusters to block the footpath. I have the predictable photo opportunity standing before the famous sign – which is now cordoned off to squeeze more money out of visitors - £15 for an official print taken by a dour ruddy-faced chap which, I decide, is criminal. So bloody what if you can have your name(s) and date fixed to the sign too! Instead, I intermittently ask various folk to take one of me on my camera, and stand ignominiously before the cordon forcing a smile, awaiting one of them to actually display some photographic aptitude. It takes awhile.
With a sudden pang of yearning for somewhere wild and desolate away from the crowds, I spot an unobtrusive grassy cliff path ostensibly stretching out into the distance and over to Sennon. And then I'm on it and I've arrived at a point in which I feel absolutely alive. It was a brisk September day with flashes of sunshine followed by frowning cloud. On my right, wild romantic moor land stretches as far as the eye can see, and to my left jagged cliff tops fall away to secluded creeks below where shipwrecks lay, abandoned and battered by the elements. Naturally, a splendid feeling of freedom and happiness abounds.
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