... or follow the edge of the peninsular towards the sea.
We chose the latter, past the boats and buoys,
the dilapidated sheds and the ramshackle, improvised, sea- and riverweed, driftwood and flotsam strewn river wall. ("Ugly." pronounced Tom.)
but further on and bearing left, the path well cut and kept, past the cottages at the weir, where a phormium held its outlandish own in the verge, with un unseasonal campion enjoying its second, mistaken spring.
In the hedgebanks, puffballs played at pebbles,
and despite the falling, coloured leaves,
plenty of late butterflies sunned themselves.
Taking the path inland a little, toward the granite chapel, a stalky, earthen field retained a remnant of its crop of artichokes, raising dry and papery heads skywards, a mucus of cobwebs spun across their purple throats,
The other path that hugs the water, yields a granite sculpture.
We could have gone on, a long long way, out to the headland if we wanted, to the rocks and lighthouses, but chose instead to make our way back down, through the crackling chestnut woods, it was lunchtime after all (we'd caught the morning light while it was good), and holidays;
there really wasn't any hurry.