Ham and Cedric could have dropped him at Weymouth but he asked them to cross the bay and drop him at Lulworth Cove. They lowered the coracle into the water and Cedric rowed him ashore. At five paces or so from the beach Walt stepped over the side into shallow clear sunlit water. His feet stirred fine glittering sand into brief swirling clouds above a shingle of small smoothed fragmented sea-shells and flints. He gave the small black coracle a push and waved a farewell. With his face set to the land, he climbed to the top of the shingle bank and walked along it to a point where a steep chalk track climbed to a saddle of grass between the white headland and the country inland. Salmon-coloured valerian still bloomed in spikes above its waxy leaves, choughs wheeled against the cliff faces. He was nearly home. The sun went in. He glanced up at the dark clouds that were gathering in the west and north, then, as he reached the saddle between the two headlands, he looked back over the sea. The sun still shone on the boat that had brought him; its sail was now up again, the coracle safely lifted and stowed on board. The sea gleamed silver to the high horizon beyond but, even as he watched, the white cliffs turned grey and purple cloud shadow slid across the waters in pursuit of the ship. The Wanderer turned his face inland, and followed the track down into the woodland and scrub on the northern side. A host of starlings whirled like dust motes over the valley ahead, gathering for an autumn moot. Summer was fading. Winter lay ahead.
The Last English King Page 42