A logbook is a strange kind of diary: weather, wind, a ship passing, oil delivered. And then, once in a while, one line that tells you everything about the person holding the pen.
The entries follow a fixed form. Date, time the light was lit, time it was put out, state of the sea, visibility. Repairs. Visitors, which were rare. Supplies, which were always late.
Read enough pages and the handwriting becomes familiar. You learn which keeper pressed hard and which one wrote small and neat. You notice when a new hand appears, and you wonder what happened to the old one.
My favourite line is almost nothing: a note that the kettle had been mended, followed the next day by the word "good". That is the whole entry. It is the happiest thing in the book.