(2 today as I missed yesterday while at a convention)
“Walking from Divilmouth, she’d been struck by how the land changed, the difficulty of moving through it increasing rapidly. Twelve or so miles might have separated the two harbours, though, had someone shown her two sets of photographs of the coastline, one set near Divilmouth and the second set near Brickburgh, and claimed that the two sets had been taken in different countries, she’d have believed them.
Once clear of Divilmouth, Lincoln’s final expedition had taken him, as it now took her, up and down a hilly collar of farmland above a serrated shoreline: a place almost bereft of human habitation for miles beyond a handful of farms and one Land Trust property. Above the sea the continuous range of mountainous mounds might have been the barrows of forgotten gods.
The surface had been wind-flayed into long, coarse wheat-like grass and brittle red heather, roamed by black sheep and small herds of jet ponies. Thorny hedges and black trees divided the turf into a patchwork eiderdown. Valleys emptied streams onto gunmetal sands. Crude faces, roughly hewn from dark volcanic rock, glowered over the empty gouges of coves that required ropes to reach.”