We rounded a corner and found the sea; stopping because I couldn't see it and not feel it, because you couldn't pass it and not photograph it.

Out of the car, we stood on the cliff edge, high above crashing waves and soaked by a storm rolling in. I pulled the place into my lungs, holding it, keeping a piece of it. Wind whipped and cold, nose and ears turning red, I watched you kneel, camera in hand, a look of concentration on your face.

The storm chased us away. My ears rang in the silence of the car, still full of rushing wind, and as we drove away you reached for my hand.