And suddenly, to my left, the cliffs fall back, leaving an opening like a doorway. I leave the road and walk through.
And inside is a pool of quiet, a round bay of cliffs. It’s a moist place, soft and vivid green. The dripping walls are coated with green moss and liverwort. Ferns spring from cracks like long green feathers, bright against the rock, dark filigree against the silver sky.
The ground is carpeted with short green grass which rises in a mound, the margins thick with irises and ferns. In the centre grows a little oak tree, its bark silver with age, its leaves shivering as the air moves through them. Its leaves are like a dome, casting a circle of shadow on the grass below. I sit there for a while, watching the leaves shift against the sky.