No, not the merchant. No, not the place of that name in England or India, Spain or Mexico.
This is land’s end in the broader sense: Here, the kingdom of foot and pedal, there, the kingdom of fin and whale.
Here is where direction matters.
Turn back and you have a continent to cross. Turn this way and the land behind you–filled with beauty and reason, undercut by fear and destruction, paved over, patched up and rolled out–is erased by water.
You consider joining land and water with a small rock, your position not requiring great strength or aim, but the timeless lovers are clearly engaged in an embrace hundreds of miles long. Even if the rock were sharp, its projection would be pointless.
So you leave the rock. You take a photograph. You return home.
The cornfield has no end.