I am walking up a hill on the Isle of Man, overlooking the small ex-fishing village of Peel. Behind me, the coast stretches in a long arc towards the even smaller village of Kirk Michael, where my father is buried. If you strain your eyes, you can see Kirk Michael beach in the distance with its tall peat and sand cliffs. The sea is what my father always referred to as a gun-metal grey.
It is a stormy August day and the wind blows strongly enough to make me think twice about trying to reach the summit. The hill is part of a peninsula of sorts, and both sides are flanked by the sea - on one side, the tamed sea of the harbour, and on the other, the vast and roaring Irish sea with its white sea birds circling the rocks. One strong gust of wind and I could lose my footing on the wet grass and find myself blown down the cliff face.
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