Later, on our way to the rock art cemetery, as we drove up the out-of-the-way 4WD track, I could feel a quietness come over Larry and Bill. I guess I was somewhat prepared for this visit, after conversations and readings, but it certainly did not deaden the emotional thunder this place caused in me.
Fenced in, face down and senselessly graffitied by cataloguing numbers these rocks seemed to hum. The fence imprisoned these works, rather than protected them. This was simply the saddest place I have ever been. It was only that evening, that I realised that this place was also profoundly beautiful.
Upon our return that night Larry, Bill and I each found a lone spot on the hill to watch the sunset cast a glow over the southern-most hills of the peninsular. The day's light went first from the valley below where the imprisoned rocks lay and was then absorbed deep into the rocks that covered the hills. Sitting silent we could hear the persistent hum of the gas plant, whose lights were conspicuously visible to the west. Below the rock art cemetery appeared to me like a singular freshly dug grave - with the piles of rocky earth set close behind ready to bury what lay below. Looking from the gas plant across to Hearson's Cove to the east I wondered what would come of this place over the coming century; I thought of the inevitability of erasure and change and I wanted to preserve this light - to take it away and keep it close.