So you take a jaunt down to the local harbour while everyone else finishes their morning preparations. The tide is further in than it was yesterday, partly enveloping the derelict masses of pebble concrete that you competed to hit with stones. It seems like an idea to walk along the harbour wall towards the lighthouse. If the wind were higher and the wall were wet you may well risk falling to injury on the left or to water on the right, but it is dry and the day is a Mediterranean shade of bright. In the water, which is deep and swelling and seems somehow to defy humanity’s inane and slothful attempt to kill it, your phone would be salty and ruined but you can swim. It would be a tale for the fireside, a bit like 2006 on Skye when you faced down a stamping bull simply because you had to, akin to walking past a group of threatening males in the street and avoiding eye contact. You do not meet the eye of the sea, so you stay on the wall and reach the lighthouse. Thomas Eliot scuttles across the floor and glances up momentarily, claws in a tangle. Mermaids giggle from the manhood-shaped pebble concrete. It’s not a residential lighthouse but looks like it still functions. Some large alkaline batteries required right there. To live in a converted lighthouse would put you in daily contact with the sea, gleaning the engineering of nineteenth century nautical safety. To sit at the window and feel the inundation, but be at its helm.