As he stepped out from the doctor’s house on the grey autumn morning after his unconventional arrival in St Piran, Joe could already feel a dissonance about the place. There was it seemed to him, a discomforting misalignment in reality in this village–like a variation in gravity, or a change in the composition of atmospheric gases. Perhaps the brief coma from which he had emerged had unsettled the balance centres in his brain. Leaving the house felt like his first foray into an alien world. How curious, Joe thought, that a location should possess a feel. He had heard architects discussing a sense of place, as if there were some alchemy in the soil, or a confluence of ley-lines that could endow a site with mystical properties. A sort of geographic feng-shui. The idea had always struck Joe as unlikely, but something about this village seemed to confirm such beliefs. It nestled so comfortably in the crook of the hill-side, the winding streets and granite walls echoing the natural contours of the rock cliffs beyond. Indeed, it might be hard to imagine this bay without the village, as if these low walls and slate roofs were part of the local geology, features hewn out of the rock face by the sea and the wind.
Not Forgetting The Whale, by John Ironmonger.