On the Topic of Rocks.
When I was younger, we would go every year to St Ives, which is a nice town on the coast of Cornwall. i'm sure it was interesting for many reasons, but the one that called to me was the beach.

Or, more specifically, the rocks.

There was a very large beach at St Ives, and at either end was a truly enormous outcropping of rocks. We're talking big. Rocks sticking up. Rocks piled on top of each other. Rocks the size of cars. Large slabs of stone that vanished into the sand. Most of it, a few hours after high tide, was slimy and decorated with seaweed.

Best. Playground. Ever.

We would go to St Ives, and I would spend up to seven hours a day climbing around on those rocks like a loon. I would pretend I was an explorer. Or a fugitive. Or some other person of an unspecified occupation. I scraped my knees, slapped seaweed on the cuts, climbed up steep slopes of slate with bare feet, splashed through rockpools, hunted out whitebait, and in general had a marvellous time.

There was one sandy little place between three big rocks that I called 'my secret cove'. And there was another place, high up, with four rocks sticking up and a flat bit in the middle, that I think we called the King's Crown. And there was one place where the waves came up and you'd swear you saw them go through the rock. And the big rockpool, and the place where I once found an entire shoal of whitebait trapped, and we caught them and had them for supper.

We don't go there any more, and I've lost my agility -there is nothing like rock climbing to give you balance. But it was fun while it lasted.