The harbour wall is exactly one kilometre long if you count from the chandlery to the light at the end. I have walked it in every season, and it is never the same walk twice.
In winter the stones are dark and slick, and the iron rings set into the wall for mooring lines are cold enough to sting your fingers. The fishing boats come in early. Nobody lingers.
Halfway along there is a set of steps going down to the water, worn into a shallow curve by a century of boots. At low tide you can see the weed and the mussels clinging to the lowest step. At high tide the step disappears and the wall feels much taller than it is.
The light at the end is small, painted white with a green band, and it switches on a little before four in the afternoon in December. If you time it right, you reach it just as it starts to blink.