The last Duke of Edgcumbe, W. tells me, married a barmaid from the pub, and put the whole estate up for sale. The city bought it. It's a miracle, we agree, as we walk out along the shore to where the path rises up through the woods.
It was here the Dukes and their guests would drive about in their carriages in the twilight, imagining they were in some Gothic romance. There's even a faux-ruined folly built on the hill, looking very convincing in the autumn sun.
A landslide has taken the woods with it; some trees still stand, growing aslant, though most have fallen. The path has been diverted, but W. prefers the old route. It's slow going – very overgrown – and where the cliff has completely collapsed, you have to scramble across scree.
What would happen if we fell? It's a long way down. But W. and I never think about our death or anything like that. It's pure melodrama. Besides, if we died, others would come along to replace us. Our position is structural, we've always been convinced by that. We're syndromes or syndromes of some great collapse, and our deaths will be no more signifcant than those of summer flies in empty rooms.
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