Photoshopped version of the previous pic (adjusted levels). More of a dreamy fantasy-like atmosphere now.
Surfers, doing what they do.
The hills here are alive with the sound of wooden posts rotting away. I'm not sure if these were part of some ancient fence or maybe a hitching post gone astray.
This pipe leads out into the ocean. What it does, I couldn't say for sure. All I know is that each time I pulled on this lever a half dozen partially digested goats would be ejected from one end. So yeah, draw your own conclusions.
Alex, reminded by the rusting fence of his time in a minimum security prison, stopped talking. We never found out what his crimes were.
The wind was relentless on the cliffs that day. So much so that Christine marveled at how quickly "evidence" would be scattered.
Always carry a spear when you go for a walk on the beach. You never know when the Cracken will emerge.
I tried in vain to warm myself at this chimney. After several minutes I noticed that it wasn't attached to any kind of structure and therefore served no useful purpose whatsoever.
A dead bird, the ocean, an oil platform. Sure, they're probably not related, but hey, fake symbolism is better than none.
The floppy-hats fishing club meets Fridays and Sundays.
A nice shot that I screwed up when I opened up the camera without rewinding the film first (the only time I've done that).