Stonehouse. It's a rough part of Plymouth, W. admits, but he's happy there. – 'You should always live among the poor', he says. We thread through the refugees who gather at the end of the road. They're always standing about outside, the refugees, the sun on their faces, W. says. He likes that. They're men of the street, as he is. But where are their womenfolk? Where do they live? It's a mystery to him, W. says.
We're heading to the sea. That's what Plymouth means to him, essentially, W. says, proximity to the sea. He has to see it!, W. says. He has to be near it! It's as essential as oxygen for him. He is a scholar of the coast, W. says, which means he's bound to end up living inland, far inland, when he loses his job. He's a scholar of fresh air, which means he'll end up somewhere underground and fetid, just like me, W. says.
On the road by the Hoe, the council have stuck little metal pillars into the road, with the names of famous residents written on them. What traces will we leave? What will be our immortality?
We pay to enter the lighthouse, and ascend its winding staircase. It was moved from the breakwater, the lighthouse, W. says when we reach the top. It's only ornamental now, with its red and white stripes. The real lighthouse is much further out to sea. We squint over the waves. The horizon is only ever three miles away, W. tells me. It's not as far as you think.
W. takes me to his favourite cafe, to see if we can find the young Pole who used to serve us. He wants me to have a romantic interest, W. says. He wants to see me stutter and fumble. He wants to see me pucker my lips for a kiss. But she isn't there, and he has to listen to my caffeine theories instead, as he sips his cappuccino.
'You'll have to document all this', W. says as we walk through the shopping arcades. 'You need to document my Plymouth years'. W. takes me on a pointing tour of his favourite buildings.
I take photos of him pointing to particular architectural features he admires. He points to the brown facade of the new arts and community building. He points to the decrepit Palace Theatre. He tells me again how the old city was razed to the ground by the Luftwaffe, and how it was rebuilt in the 50s, according to the Abercrombie Plan.
I take a picture of him pointing directly up into the sky, from where the Luftwaffe came, and then, standing on a bench, pointing directly at the earth, where they deposited their bombs. I ask a passerby to take a photo of W. pointing at me, and of me pointing at him, and, finally, of W. and I pointing at one another.
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