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"The Devil's Needle, Arbroath, Scotland" (c) 2005, 2008
"The Devil's Needle, Arbroath, Scotland" (c) 2005, 2008 Stu Jenks
[Excerpt from the story "Twenty Four Hours in Scotland"]
6:30 a.m.
I miss the sea. Christ, I've only been away from it for a day. I could smell it in Edinburgh last night, but I couldn't see it. I need to see it again.
A9 to Perth, then catch the A90 to Dundee.
Dundee. I like the way that town sounds, plus that city is right on the sea. Let's do it.
7:30 a.m.
Light now. Overcast. A bit rainy just north of Dundee. Hungry as hell. Got another cup of horrid coffee at a gas station back in Perth. I need some real food and a better cup of Joe.
Then I see the Golden Arches and laugh out loud. What better place to get an Egg McMuffin and a big cup of strong coffee that at the McDonald's just outside of Dundee.
Twenty minutes later, I'm fat and happy in the Mickey D. parking lot, sipping a good strong American cup of coffee. On my Michelin map, I notice the word 'Cliffs' just north of the little town of Arbroath. Bet I can see the sea from there.
8:00 a.m.
Clouds low. A strong drizzle. Not mist, not rain, something in-between. A soccer field's behind me. The clock tower of Arbroath a few hundred yard to my right. A paved path leads up to higher ground. And right in front of me is the English Channel. White caps roll toward the shore.
I take a very deep breath.
Grab the Rollei, the tripod, my smokes and lock the VW.
The parking lot is quite large. Bet on the weekend, quite a few local folk come here, to play soccer or sit by the sea. Just me and another car are here this morning though.
I walk across the lot and step onto the smooth asphalt path that appears to skirt the edge of the sea. Then I see a small sign, nicely carved on a plank of wood.
“Beware of Dangerous Cliffs. Take Great Care.”
I smile. How eloquent, how English.
A minute later, I realized they aren't kidding. The path runs right along the edge. Sometimes, the edge is a gently descending hill that anyone could easily walk down, but more often than not, the edge is a sheer cliff face, a drop straight down at least fifty feet to wet rocks below. No fence. Just a park bench every so often to rest on. What a delight, to not be protected from my own stupidity, that if I fell to my death, it would be on me. And if I am safe, it's on me too. And just as important, the view isn't obscured by a silly fence of some sort.
Waves explode on the rocks below, showering a curtain of mist. Beautiful.
A sign points toward The Devil's Needle. And then I see the Needle itself, a large arch of rock that reminds me of the Canyonlands of Utah. Except the Canyonlands don't have this exploding ocean surf around them. I gingerly walk down a grassy slope toward the arch. Make a spiral in the sand and rock? No. Just shoot a straight shot of the arch and the channel instead. Heavy mist coats me and my camera as I take a few exposures. I try and time it so I get the raising spray in the shot, but I never time it just right. Not a biggie. I click off a few more exposures, and then pack up my gear, but stand a while, looking at the sea. Smelling the sea. The sea smells pretty much the same here, as it does at the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia or at Bahia Kino in Sonora, Mexico. Maybe a bit more earthy and peaty in its fragrance but basically the same. My glasses become foggy from the salty mist. I usually don’t like that, but today, I couldn’t care less.
Then suddenly I slip on a wet rock near the edge, grab the ground quickly and stop my fall into the drink. I slowly rise to my feet and take a few slow steps back, away from the edge.
Take great care, Stu. Do as the sign says.
[Note: The above image is an unintentional double exposure. I got lucky that the horizon lines matched up. And finally I dedicate this image to the comedian/writer/talk show host Craig Ferguson who I think lived in Arbroath for a while, though I may be wrong. Glad you didn't jump off the Tower Bridge, Craig. Glad I didn't fall to my death, as well, back in 1985.]
