49
We claim another morning for ourselves under the pretense of walking the cliff paths.
It’s only when we get past several undulations of the path that I see the small, crumbling ruin from the pictures of St. Columba’s. An old fishing cottage, I think, with walls of stone and a missing roof. I call to Elijah that I’m going to check it out, and then he joins me, ducking through the intact doorway to stand next to me inside.
“And to think, this would go for a mere million pounds in London,” he says, looking at the fireplace which has weeds growing inside. But there’s no trash tangled in the weeds, which as a former teenage (and adult-age) troublemaker makes me think that the little cottage is too remote for people to use as a party-spot or trysting place. The grass that’s grown on wh
