Extollagy!

This wraith-coast of tumbling headlands and snouts, mist-layered staks made of windblown desert sand piled high. We struggle round, three children and I, beaten beneath a suprisingly harsh March sun, Jurassically excitable. Past nameless tide-threatened beaches, up stairways of concrete that hang out over vertiginous drops, make your mother weep. It’s further than anyone said it could be, and when we get there, almost back to the further beach, yet as hidden from that world of concrete chalets as we are from the depth-charged ribbon development of beachview retirement homes above, we find it gone, collapsed, a great elbow in the cliff where it turns in sudden treasure from sand to a glistening white ivory-crystal wall. No cave then, but a remaining opening large enough for each of us, tired and hungry, to crouch in its mouth: and as we emerge, the glassy boulders of the shoreline are delinated anew, each a collapsed vault of heaven, a great glassy geometrical mass of diamond and deep sand-charged metamorphic pink.