On the final day of the year we head west along the cliffs. We have no destination, we will walk until the littlest legs need rest. The paths are thick with mud and boots become heavy, sliding across loose shards of rock as we head up over the headland. On one side the sea glistens dense and grey—it is unreadable, sulking and still— on the other, the land rises up in spears of rock punctured with dangerously alluring openings to the mineshafts that once filled this landscape with noise and prosperity. Now of course they lie empty. We wander off  and peer through the dripping black arch into the bowels of the earth. The wet gloom seems to seep out into the late afternoon sky behind us. We have no torch, and no inclination to get lost in that blackness today.

A pair of choughs rise up a few yards ahead, their distinct rusty cry falling towards the sea on the still air. As we continue west the light becomes brighter, harder, and the air is cold. The gorse is alone with its perpetual blooms, yellow petals bright against the dark star-like thorns. The day, and the year, is waning but little legs stomp on. Longships beyond Sennen is lost in a wash of silver. We know why we have come here but neither of us has said it. We have heard the rumours.

The path drops down steeply. We pause and shield our eyes against the glare of sunlight which seems to billow out from the rippled silhouette of the Scilly isles on the western horizon. We look east, back towards the Brisons. The sea is like stone.

And then, we can hardly breathe, out of the stillness a column of spray, gone in a minute. We wait, binoculars ready. It rises up again, and with it the dark sleek arc of its back. It rolls up slowly breaking the surface, it’s low long dorsal fin making it easy to recognise, a humpback. We watch and wait, unable to move in case we lose sight of it in that vast sweep of silver. Little legs stand on tiptoes trying to see what we are seeing. Slowly, dipping in an out of sight they come in closer to the land. There are two of them, a mother and her calf perhaps. We can see no more than the glinting black crest of their backs, but we can hear them. The gusts of breathe, heavy satisfied sighs flinging saltwater upwards, echo across the silent water. We listen, and we watch, and the world recedes behind this moment. But little legs begin to fidget, and the air whispers of the approaching snow. And then they are gone, moving west into the metallic water where we cannot see them, lost in the winter light of a fading year.