The heavens, having rained themselves dry, radiated a pale greenish glow which brightened the tumbled stack of cottages that is Robin Hood’s Bay. The higgledy-piggledy houses appeared to cling limpet-like to the cliff face to prevent them sliding into the sea far below.
That evening, near the beach, Peter was drawn to a signpost that pointed south towards the distant cliff. The sign displayed two weathered words: ‘Cleveland Way’.
“I don’t want to stop now,” Peter said with deep regret resonating in his voice. “I want to go on.”