14

Them days you looked one way and there was nothing but sea. This was before the bridge of course. If you looked behind you, you saw nothing that way too. Only fields going all the way up the hill. Up toward the parish church they were marked out, but toward the point it was all windswept, rough land. You were forever on the edge of emptiness. The sea rose up, white foaming, while the gales wrenched trees out of the earth and went almost to pick you up from where you stood. Still, when it was calm and you were out in thick darkness, it was like your blood was running slower and slower, threatening to turn to stone.

The bunkers were a series of playgrounds to us. There were even old ovens built into the walls, where we burned stuff for a laugh. Our favourite hangout was in one of these war relics, hidden by overgrown brambles. We'd mess about until smoke poured out of the hole in the ceiling where the gun turret had been.

Hard men lived up there on the point. They must have froze and thawed out time after time. We'd come up the track, heading for a swing rope of ours and discover them cooking rabbit. They wouldn't chase us, just stop us with a stare. They'd shout "Get out of it" and we'd scarper.
Up to our bunker one clear day, we found a dead tramp. A mess of flies rose up when we got too close to him. We watched him in silence before running off and never reported it.

10 minute Keith Richards 'Life' extract reworking.