Last Call at the Lighthouse

The ferry let out a low, mournful blast as it nudged the jetty for the final time that season.

A handful of us — old hands, retired keepers, and the simply curious — shuffled onto the salt-crusted planks under a sky of hammered pewter.

The lighthouse loomed ahead, its red-and-white hoops peeling in the damp air, a relic preparing for its own wake.

Inside the lantern room we gathered, the curved glass sweating from our breath.

Maggie, the last principal keeper, stood by the great optic, one hand resting on its cold brass housing.