Ahead of me is a stretch of heath I have not seen before. If my sense of direction is correct, it leads toward the cliffs that drop deep to the sea I am so afraid of. I have learned not to trust my senses, however, so walk straight ahead. I expect to see insects fly up from the heather with each footstep, escaping from certain death, but no sign of life presents itself. At this, I notice the surreal silence around me. No birds sing, no crickets buzz. A chill wind whips my eardrums with a low, irritating rumble, but otherwise all is unnaturally quiet. I stumble over clumps of heather and moss, heading in as straight a line as I can manage. I gradually begin hear another sound: my luck, as ever, is non-existent, as I recognise the noise as the crashing of waves against rock. Unexpectedly, the cliffs are upon me out of nowhere, and I gaze down several hundred feet towards the icy looking water. To my right a perilous looking path winds down the cliff face, carved into the rock. Knowing I cannot turn back to the wood and its occupant, I nervously begin my descent. The path looks like it has not been used for many years, its surface weather-beaten and unstable. Several times a handful of dirt and rock falls away at my footstep, tumbling down to the sea in an ominous reversal of the insects I expected to encounter earlier. With each step my nerves become weaker, and I am relieved to see an opening in the cliff-face ahead of me. The sound of a light rush of water emanates from the cave as I enter, suggesting a fountain or small waterfall inside. As the light fades around me, I wonder what I will find.