The sea drains away. Leaving Hangman's Rock and Cromwell's Castle to contemplate their reflections, in the still waters, far below their feet . For today's is the big spring tide.
I am walking north, along Bryher's cliffs. Toward Shipman's Head. The seaward tip of the island.
At this end of Bryher, the granite is clothed in soft fronds of bracken, and bright bursts of colourful heather. Both short in stem, and well nestled down, among the rocks, out of the wind. The spines and thorns, of Gweal and Samson hills, to the west and south, completely absent.
Below me, the fishing fleet, of pot boats, lies moored in the lee of Hangman's Rock. Protected from the swell, in heavy northerly weather.
Further out, a straight stemmed, heavy ketch moors between the rocks, revealed by the receding tide. They are heaped in long dark fronds of seaweed, which await the return of the nutrifying waters. The boat sports an intriguing rig, with a long bowsprit and an even longer bumpkin (stern bowsprit). The mizzen (aft sail), looks to be a lug sail, whilst the main appears to set from a gaff, with her foretriangle cutter rigged.
I have cleared the northern tip of Tresco now, looking out across the sound. Only the last rocky remnants of Kettle Point lie strewn across the waters, as the Kettle Reef. Round Island, with its lighthouse, stands high, against the horizon.
Off the sea shattered crags of Shipman's Head, a Shrimper, out for a gentle daysail, stands in close, to admire the view.
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