It had been a matter of a few minutes to find a way down the hillside to the redundant rubble. The roof had long since collapsed, with shattered slates lying in and around the site. Leaving Arthur happily clicking away the other two walked around the walls. The beaten track that Phil had spotted from the top led a short distance up the hill.
Following it Reuben was the first to notice what appeared to be a pair of doors in the side of the hill.
"Look at this!" he called, trying the catch. To his surprise it opened as smoothly as if it was in continual use. He peered through the doorway.
"What's this? A secret passage into the centre of the earth?" Phil chuckled.
"I can't see exactly. It's too dark."
The noise that echoed out of the hillside caught Reuben by surprise. He had put his head into the opening as he struggled to get a glimpse of what lay behind it. Now he started, catching the back of his head on the lintel as he did so.
“Ouch!" he cried, and immediately his voice was amplified and mimicked by a thousand ghostly creatures from the abyss.
Phil laughed out loud. Reuben gave him a hurt look and rubbed the bruised area hard with his hand. "I don't see what's so funny!" he remarked reproachfully.
"Have you never sung in the bath?" Phil replied, grinning.
"What do you mean?"
Phil put his head through the small wooden doors and shouted "YO!" The sound was amplified, and reverberated around the space within for a good three or four seconds before fading once more into silence.
"Its an underground reservoir. Very large by the sound of it."
He dropped a stone into the darkness and they both heard the unmistakable splash as it plunged into the water. "A spring on an island this size would not be large enough to fill a kettle in half an hour" Phil explained, "but if the water is stored and collected over night, or over a few weeks then provided there are no leaks in the reservoir there should always be enough water on hand when it is needed. Some reservoirs are big enough to swim in."
Peering back into the gloom Reuben noticed an iron hook set into the stone. From this someone had hung a plastic bucket, the sort that might hold a kilo or two of jam, which was attached to a strong length of cord. He unhooked the vessel and lowered it until he felt the cord slacken. Then as he pulled steadily the bucket reappeared full of pure, clear water. He passed the bucket to Phil who took a sip.
"My, but that tastes good!" said Phil, smacking his lips.
"Is it safe to drink do you think?" Reuben asked.
"Sure! There's no pollution here. It's about as pure as it comes. You could make a fortune putting it in plastic bottles and selling it at the supermarket!"
Reuben gingerly put his lips to the bucket and drank the cold refreshing water, which did indeed taste just as good as it looked.
As he replaced the bucket Reuben realised that the cord was relatively new. Looking closely at the doors it was also apparent that the catch had been recently oiled. Puzzled, he was about to point this out to Phil when there was a shout from the house.
"Oi! Over here!” Arthur's voice echoed excitedly up the hillside and the two turned and ran back towards the intrepid photographer.
"What's up?" Phil called as they arrived at the ruin. Pausing at the doorway they peered through, looking for their companion who appeared, dusty, dishevelled and clutching his camera.
"Someone has been here quite recently." Arthur remarked, breathlessly. "There's something here you might find interesting." He led the way to the other side of the house, stepping over fallen roof beams and avoiding the shattered slates. They reached the small room, which had once been a kitchen or scullery, an addition to the original design and the only part to have a low roof, which was still largely intact, blocking out the light.
As their eyes became accustomed to the sudden gloom they noticed a number of cardboard boxes in one corner. In contrast to their setting they were clean, neatly stacked and in good condition, sealed with strips of wide, brown plastic tape.
They made their way back to the tents in comparative silence. Somehow the adventurous spirit, that had prevailed since that first seed of an idea had risen with the steam from Reuben's teapot, had ebbed leaving them feeling flat. Their island, their deserted island complete with ruins and rugged rocks, was no longer solely theirs. Some other human agency must already know this place better than they.
Arriving at the small cluster of tents Reuben busied himself lighting the fire whilst Arthur began writing copious notes in a new dark blue hard backed exercise book. Every camera shot had to be logged. Aperture, filters, exposure times and light meter readings that had been scribbled on the back of an old envelope were neatly tabulated in small perfectly formed handwriting. Film cases were labelled and stored in order in a large aluminium travelling case.
Leaving the other two at their labours, Phil strolled back down to the cove. The evening was slowly casting longer shadows as the twilight stretched its crooked fingers into the nooks and crannies of the rocky shoreline. The tide was now nearing its lowest point, exposing the sand and seaweed at the foot of the rocks. Bringing the canoes up onto the grass at low tide, he realised, was going to prove tricky. The natural jetty on which they had first made landfall was now at least six feet above the sand. He scrambled down onto the sand, collecting driftwood, which he slung up onto the grass. He noticed clumps of mussels on some of the lower rocks and the ever-present barnacles that gave the appearance of splashes and speckles of off-white pebbledash spilt by some careless builder.
As the dusk strengthened he climbed back up and returned to the camp bringing the damp wood and placing it neatly close to the fire, which was now burning brightly. The scent of sausages grilling in the heat of the flames reminded him that he was hungry.
"That smells good!" he remarked. "Are they nearly ready?"
"Couple of minutes" came the reply. Reuben had a small frying pan, which he balanced precariously on three large stones at the edge of the fire. He proceeded to add a little oil and some onion slices. Phil watched as he prised the slices into rings, which soon started sizzling away, adding to the already appetizing aroma.
A few minutes later as they sat around their camp fire devouring hot-dogs they began to feel something of their earlier spirit returning. The sun had set and the darkness closed in around the camp. The light from the flames danced silently on the tents.
"I still think we should have opened one of those boxes." Arthur commented. "There could have been anything in them!"
"Forged banknotes, perhaps? Or a jewel thief's swag stored until it is safe to pass on to the 'fence'!" Phil's eyes twinkled and he grinned.
"It wasn't right." Reuben countered. "Whoever put them there must come to the island fairly regularly. The well doors were well maintained and the floor of that room was clean. Who knows? Perhaps the house still belongs to someone."
"Not exactly a DIY expert!" Arthur smiled. "Still, I'd like to have another look at that side of the island tomorrow. There must be another landing place. I can't see anyone carrying those over the top of the hill."
"There must be a path down to the sea. Funny we didn't spot it today though."
"We didn't exactly look for one did we? I mean once we had found the boxes it was pretty well time to come back." Phil got up and reached into his tent. He pulled out his guitar and sat down, expertly twiddling the pegs and plucking harmonics until, happy with the tuning, he broke into a slow rhythmic blues riff. From then the evening progressed into song and laughter. Finally, tired and happy, the three retreated to their tents to sleep.
A little way up the hill a pair of field glasses were put carefully away in a battered leather case as their owner turned round, walking silently and skilfully in the darkness in the direction of the old cottage.
They awoke to the sound of gulls wheeling overhead. Reuben was the first to rise, pulling on a pair of trainers and stumbling out into the daylight. The remains of the fire still cast a whisp of smoke up into the air which was carried away by the cool breeze that passed through the camp. Although much of the driftwood that Phil had collected had been used the previous evening, enough remained to rekindle the embers and very soon a pan of water bubbled merrily ready to be transformed into hot tea when the need arose. He could easily have lit the small camping gas stove for this function. The water would have boiled sooner but Reuben was still caught up in the spirit of the campfire, and anyway there was no rush.
They tolerated a breakfast of cereal served with long-life milk and decided on a course of action for the day. Arthur produced a sketchbook with several pages of thick handmade paper and announced his intention to grapple with watercolours. Not having the skill or patience to follow this lead Phil and Reuben decided to return to the far side of the island.
Walking to the right of the great hill they soon found their way was blocked as the island at this point met the sea in a near vertical cliff. With the proper equipment this would have been an entertaining piece of rock face to traverse. As it was they decided to retrace their steps and follow the route they had taken the previous day. As they neared the brow of the hill they looked back to see that Arthur was already engrossed in the shades and lines of the natural harbour. The tide was fairly high and once more they caught a glimpse of small dark shapes plunging into the water beyond where the artist was sitting.
Turning, they began the descent of the hill, picking their way through the undergrowth. As they drew near to the house Phil stooped and pointed out a plant growing close to their path.
"Will you look at that now!" he exclaimed. "This must have been part of the garden. A potato no less!" He dug down with his fingers at the base of the plant and, sure enough, there were the small brown vegetables almost ready to eat. Further observation revealed four or five similar plants in the same area.
"They must have bred naturally after the owners left." commented Reuben. "There doesn't seem to be any pattern to their planting."
"I wonder what else has survived. It must have been a sizeable plot."
Continuing their walk towards the house they passed a rambling sprawl of rhubarb beginning to turn pink and a collection of raspberry canes half strangled by the brambles that had the upper hand in the battle for control of the land. They walked on around the walls, picking their way through the fallen slates, searching the ground for evidence of a pathway to the shore.
They found it almost by accident. Reaching the small extension that housed the makeshift storeroom discovered on the previous day they noticed a door in the wall.
"That must be behind the boxes." said Reuben. "I don't remember seeing it yesterday."
Phil tried the handle. It turned easily but to no avail. The door was locked.
Turning away Reuben stumbled on a stone. Throwing out his arms to steady himself he found himself leaning on a low wall that ran parallel with the cottage. Opposite the locked door there was a gap in this wall from which led a small flight of stone steps. They descended into what looked like a tunnel. Reuben pushed gingerly aside the sprawling bramble that had concealed it from their view.
"I think this could be it." he remarked.
Once in the 'tunnel' they realised that it was in fact a narrow gully, bounded on each side by a high stone wall that retained the garden. Its tunnel like appearance was due to the large numbers of creeping plants that bridged the gap between one side and the other filling the gully with an eerie green light.
There was plenty of room in the gully for both of them to walk without stooping. At one point the pathway took a sharp left turn and then again almost immediately to the right. After a relatively short distance they noticed that the soft ground on which they had been walking gave way to a sandy surface. A few yards more and they came out onto the beach that they had first glimpsed from the top of the hill.
Passing once more into the light Phil was the first to step onto the yellow beach. Suddenly he stopped still in his tracks and it was all Reuben could do to avoid bumping in to him.
"Watch out!" he exclaimed indignantly. "I nearly knocked you over!"
Phil ignored him. "Look!" he said, in a voice close to a whisper.
On the beach, tucked into the vegetation line was a small, sleek wooden boat. Its dark mahogany sides shone with a new layer of clear varnish, and attached to the stern was a small outboard engine. Its gleaming brasswork and old fashioned tank, mounted on top showed that this antique craft was well looked after and cherished.
Phil walked over to the boat and looked inside. It was empty except for a petrol can stowed neatly by the engine mountings and several plastic fenders designed to protect the boat when tied to other boats or to a quay.. He leaned over and felt the weight of the can. It was practically empty.
"I'd rather you didn't touch that, if you don't mind."
Startled, Reuben spun round to face the voice. Standing in the entrance to the gully was a girl, tall with long dark hair and pale skin. She was dressed in a dark blue Guernsey sweater that had seen better days and fashionably torn, faded jeans. Reuben, however, did not notice this. He was more concerned with the single barrel light shotgun that was currently pointed directly at him.