She’d quit her well-paid job in advertising and devoted herself to impending parenthood; Harry had grumbled in that way he had, but had eventually come round to supporting her.
And then that had happened.
It was heartbreaking, it truly was, but she had to face up to reality. She stood from her kneeling position and looked out across the majestic bay. The North Sea was a plane of glittering curls, the beach close by a fringe of gold. All the fine buildings constituting the village nestled around a river running inland, with a small bridge allowing passage to transport. With the tide out, small boats stood moored on muddy banks, while seagulls patrolled the skies, their squawks as fretful as childr—
But Meg killed these thoughts in their cradle. Her task now completed, and well before noon, she returned the hoe to the shed and then headed back for the cottage. The property was one of only several on the cliff side overlooking Sandsend. It had cost a hefty sum, and so she had to remain committed to their decision to relocate. She recalled the other interest she’d been thinking about earlier, her passion for history. She’d bought a concise guidebook to the area only last week, and had already identified several aspects of the past she wished to explore in more detail. After eating a light lunch and climbing into hiking boots, she stepped back out into a cool gray afternoon. And then headed off north along the Sandsend Trail.
2
Meg had often visited Whitby as a girl; her parents had loved the uncorrupted qualities of the area and had been keen to convey these to their only child. For holidays, Harry had always preferred more exotic locations—Africa, Asian, South America: places to brag about during dinner parties—but every year of their fifteen-year marriage, Meg had persuaded him to take a weekend away on the north coast of England, unwinding from work, getting in touch with nature. City life was fine and thrilling, but underneath her cosmopolitan façade, Meg was at heart the youngster she’d once been, fascinated by the origins of existence and how everything had developed the way it had. And when she’d been forced to choose a bolthole after her tragic recent experience, there’d be no competition at all.
The book she carried offered concise guidance to walkers venturing along the Sandsend cliff side. Not that anybody else was out this cool midweek day. The path ahead led between great trees—Hawthorns, Meg thought they must be—and the ground underfoot hinted at the place’s history, the many layers of shale and rock that had been mined several centuries earlier. To one side was a ditch, the guidebook explained, which had once been used as a drainage channel for a railway no longer in place. The track, laid in the late 1800s, had run from Whitby to Middlesbrough, but the line had closed in 1958 through lack of use. Now, where water gathered in the ditch and sunlight fell unhindered, the conditions were ideal for alder, willow and other wet-loving plants. Elsewhere, bearing purple stems and clusters of white flowers, angelica stood, swaying silently in the soft breeze. The intricate combination of all these floral species beguiled Meg, and for the first time that day—since her husband left that morning—she felt content.
Once the trees fell away, she found herself in a vast, open space, where nature had reclaimed all the land sculpted by mining operations. The territory had great scallops carved out of it, with varying strata bearing different types of vegetation. The guidebook reported that a hundred million years earlier, the area had been covered by a tropical ocean, but fine silts had settled on the seabed to form crumbly shale. Meg could see this now, a gray strip of alum crowned by brownish sandstone. This higher layer had been created when the ocean became shallower and then covered by a large river delta that had deposited sand and mud. The top of the
And then that had happened.
It was heartbreaking, it truly was, but she had to face up to reality. She stood from her kneeling position and looked out across the majestic bay. The North Sea was a plane of glittering curls, the beach close by a fringe of gold. All the fine buildings constituting the village nestled around a river running inland, with a small bridge allowing passage to transport. With the tide out, small boats stood moored on muddy banks, while seagulls patrolled the skies, their squawks as fretful as childr—
But Meg killed these thoughts in their cradle. Her task now completed, and well before noon, she returned the hoe to the shed and then headed back for the cottage. The property was one of only several on the cliff side overlooking Sandsend. It had cost a hefty sum, and so she had to remain committed to their decision to relocate. She recalled the other interest she’d been thinking about earlier, her passion for history. She’d bought a concise guidebook to the area only last week, and had already identified several aspects of the past she wished to explore in more detail. After eating a light lunch and climbing into hiking boots, she stepped back out into a cool gray afternoon. And then headed off north along the Sandsend Trail.
2
Meg had often visited Whitby as a girl; her parents had loved the uncorrupted qualities of the area and had been keen to convey these to their only child. For holidays, Harry had always preferred more exotic locations—Africa, Asian, South America: places to brag about during dinner parties—but every year of their fifteen-year marriage, Meg had persuaded him to take a weekend away on the north coast of England, unwinding from work, getting in touch with nature. City life was fine and thrilling, but underneath her cosmopolitan façade, Meg was at heart the youngster she’d once been, fascinated by the origins of existence and how everything had developed the way it had. And when she’d been forced to choose a bolthole after her tragic recent experience, there’d be no competition at all.
The book she carried offered concise guidance to walkers venturing along the Sandsend cliff side. Not that anybody else was out this cool midweek day. The path ahead led between great trees—Hawthorns, Meg thought they must be—and the ground underfoot hinted at the place’s history, the many layers of shale and rock that had been mined several centuries earlier. To one side was a ditch, the guidebook explained, which had once been used as a drainage channel for a railway no longer in place. The track, laid in the late 1800s, had run from Whitby to Middlesbrough, but the line had closed in 1958 through lack of use. Now, where water gathered in the ditch and sunlight fell unhindered, the conditions were ideal for alder, willow and other wet-loving plants. Elsewhere, bearing purple stems and clusters of white flowers, angelica stood, swaying silently in the soft breeze. The intricate combination of all these floral species beguiled Meg, and for the first time that day—since her husband left that morning—she felt content.
Once the trees fell away, she found herself in a vast, open space, where nature had reclaimed all the land sculpted by mining operations. The territory had great scallops carved out of it, with varying strata bearing different types of vegetation. The guidebook reported that a hundred million years earlier, the area had been covered by a tropical ocean, but fine silts had settled on the seabed to form crumbly shale. Meg could see this now, a gray strip of alum crowned by brownish sandstone. This higher layer had been created when the ocean became shallower and then covered by a large river delta that had deposited sand and mud. The top of the
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