Tintagel

Winds fire the tears from our eyes, the sea salt hangs in the air and yet we brave the hill. The walk with bent knees burning lava through our bodies. 

Blues and greens engulf the senses, ruins wavered by time but yet remain, basking in former glory.

Caves as black as the sahara night, sand flicks as we jump the rocks and land on stale seaweed. Walking through to the light. 

The hike upward, steps carved into the land. Stopping for declining footsteps, hearing the sand grate between sole and rock. 

Arthurs view a sight to behold. Defender of the Rose he watches over the Motherland. 

See the contours of our land, the wind rippling the surface of the sea. The power only nature can bring. 

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