Most lighthouses I visit are silent now. The horns were switched off years ago, but the little brick houses that held the compressors are still there, sitting next to the tower like a forgotten sibling.
The harbour wall is exactly one kilometre long if you count from the chandlery to the light at the end. I have walked it in every season, and it is never the same walk twice.
A logbook is a strange kind of diary: weather, wind, a ship passing, oil delivered. And then, once in a while, one line that tells you everything about the person holding the pen.