Excerpt from We Own the Sky by Luke Allnutt, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

CHAPTER TWO

In the morning, it is cold but sunny, and I walk down from the parking lot, past the Magic Merlin gift shop and the sandwich boards advertising King Arthur tours and two-for-one cream teas. With my equipment strapped to my back, I head down into an earthy hollow and then cross a small rocky walkway that connects the mainland to the island. To my right, there is a sloping baize of grass that leads down to the cliff edge, bro¬ken up with rabbit holes and occasional patches of sand.

I didn't sleep at Charlie's. She stirred as I was leaving, and I could imagine her, one eye open, pretending to be asleep, waiting for the click of the latch. The guesthouse was only a few doors down. It was strange to be sleeping in a hotel when I lived close by, but I wanted to be able to drink without having to worry about driving home.

I clamber up the rocky path, my head pounding, the taste of Red Bull still on my breath. Moving slowly as the incline sharpens, I climb the steep wooden steps up to the ruins, the camera bag heavy on my shoulder. Close to the edge, I can feel the spray of the sea, and I stop to rest and watch the tide com¬ing in, quickly now, ruthlessly sweeping away sand castles and seaweed dumped by an earlier swell.

I climb farther up the hill to the site of the old lookout point. There are no tourists up here, just the wind and the squawk of seagulls. I find a piece of flat ground and place my wooden board down to secure the tripod, to add extra weight so it is not easily dislodged. I fix the lens and then attach the camera, testing to see if the rotation is smooth.

The conditions are perfect. The sea, sand and grass are so vivid, unreal; in the morning light they look like the colors of a child's rainbow. With my back to the sea, I can see the natu-ral camber of the hills, the slow descent into the valley, down toward the bric-a-brac town. It is an incredibly visceral place. From up here, you could almost reach out and run your hands over the land, feeling the bumps and indentations as if reading braille.

The wind is slowly picking up, warm gusts that blow up white crowns on the waves, and I know I must start soon. I set up the first shots for the panorama, looking northeast toward the headland, and then slowly rotate the tripod disc, stopping at regular intervals to take bursts, until I have gone round the full 360 degrees.

When the camera has stopped its gentle whir, I check the little LCD screen to see that all the images are there and then pack up my equipment and walk back down to the parking lot.


The house is about an hour's drive down the coast. The village is deserted as I drive through. The corner shop is still closed, shuttered down for the off-season. I drive past the church and then along the winding road across the dunes, past the National Trust information center, and then up the unpaved track toward the edge of the cliff and the house.

It wasn't just the cottage's solitude that attracted me, but was the way it was exposed, utterly at the mercy of the ele¬ments. Perched on an outcrop of rock, across the bay from St. Ives, it is the only building in sight. There is no shelter, no val¬ley to break the ferocious Atlantic wind. When the rain lashes at the windows, when the sea winds refuse to let up, the house shudders, and it feels like it is crumbling into the sea.

As soon as I am in the door, I pour a large glass of vodka. Then I go to my office upstairs, sit at my desk and stare through the dormer window that looks out across the bay. I log in to my profiles on OKCupid and Heavenly Sinful to see if I have any messages. There is one, from "Samantha," a woman I was messaging a few weeks ago.

Hiya, you disappeared. Still interested in meeting?

I look at her pictures, skipping through the tedium of pat¬ent shoes and discarded umbrellas and plane wings and hearts on cappuccinos, and there is one of her on holiday somewhere, and I am reminded that she is pretty, a slight, mousy brunette.

Excerpted from We Own the Sky by Luke Allnutt. Copyright © 2018 by Luke Allnutt. Excerpted by permission of Park Row Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.