Past the randomly discarded farm implements
Over the heather moor and peat bog
Past the rebuilt black houses
Past the new houses with abandoned static caravans
The islanders you would think are not fond of aesthetic beauty
Perhaps this is what a hard life brings; years of cutting peat or catching fish, years of toil before this current time in the work of supporting the leisured classes
Perhaps these years of hardship coupled with the very regular visits of mist and rain combine to build an island consciousness, where survival & shelter come first, a very long way first
This is not then a place for you seekers, of the peak, of the self realisation pyramid
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