on the north coast of the island, pebble beaches where the German concrete ruins rise up from pink boulders and cliffs. And there is a glade, steep and shaded, with a memorial to a British Special Forces raid, lives wagered when the order was out to kill all commandos. I found a bullet still in its cartridge there, lobbed it far into the ferns. It can feel lonely in the North Coast ravines, away from the choked houses and clipped lawns of the main port town, and that must be a precious thing. There’s no yesterday, only the silent gathering of the past.
