Crawford was a small island a few miles off the north-west of the mainland. Its grounds were covered in lush green grasses; its borders were formed of the steepest cliff faces. The only place that Crawford’s surface met with the sea was at a small opening – less than half a mile wide – where the island’s sole beach and port could be found.

The opening was at the south-east of Crawford, which was fortunate because it meant that ferries and cargo from the mainland could access the island with ease. Located in a prime spot for initial contact with ships making the long haul across the ocean, Crawford served as the cornerstone of navigation in its country’s northern sea.

The island wasn’t wide; it couldn’t even boast a great deal of land. What distinguished Crawford from other nearby islands was how thin it was, and how far it stretched from end-to-end.

Towards the end of the eighteenth century, Crawford would gain two new residents. A pair of lighthouses – one on each end of the island – would be built to guide marine vessels to the mainland.

Most of Crawford’s residents lived in the town in the centre of the island. Approximately seven thousand people lived there, and every one of them welcomed the building of the lighthouses with open arms.

As time moved forward, the lighthouses became more entwined into Crawford’s identity and were adopted as its mascots; many said that they were the most recognisable lighthouses in the world.

For nearly a hundred and thirty years, they both lived without names. In 1927, a new mayor was elected. Mayor Oliver Greenson was given the island’s reigns and took the town to places that most were eager to follow him to. Charismatic, attractive, and in possession of a natural aptitude for leadership, Oliver was the youngest Mayor in Crawford’s history. One of his first non-political calls was to hold a vote in which names of the lighthouses would be decided.

The logistics of the operation were similar to that of any election; the town’s council compiled a shortlist of potential names, each resident was given two voting cards – one for the east lighthouse and one for the west – and the person would select which name they felt best suited for each.

The east dwelling tower was the smaller one. It was only slight by a short distance, but it was a magnificent structure, nonetheless. Coloured with seven alternating bands of white and cherry red, it was certainly the best-looking lighthouse in Crawford. It was decided that it would be known as Harley.

On the west side of the island lived what would come to be known as Rowan; the larger of the two. Standing at nearly 200 feet tall, Rowan could be seen from far out at sea. Its location meant that it was the first of the two to be seen by the ships travelling from the ocean to the west coast of the mainland. It also meant that it usually caught the last rays of daylight. When it was initially constructed and painted, it was given the brightest and cleanest of whites, so its visibility was maximised.

For the next twenty years, Harley and Rowan worked together to gift light to the surrounding seas. Much changed in Crawford during this time: its political structure, its revenue from tourism, even its population density fluctuated a noticeable amount. The two lighthouses remained constant, and there wasn’t a night that went by where they weren’t operational; a small, dedicated team ensured the lighthouses served their purpose.

The walk between the lighthouses could take less than an hour, and the route was frequented by both residents and tourists. Crawford’s terrain was mostly even, so the walk could be enjoyed by young and old, and everyone in-between.

Late Spring of 1949 brought an abundance of warm sunshine, and many of Crawford’s residents flocked to the mainland to enjoy the quiet countryside and lively beaches. Among these residents were all but one of the lighthouse keepers.

The night of the 23^rd of May was the final night that Harley and Rowan would work together as a team. The keeper had checked on Rowan before making the walk to the east of Crawford. Less than a mile away from Harley, he could see smoke and flames. He tried his best to run Harley and call for Crawford’s only fire engine, but it was already too late.

Nobody knew what caused the fire that night. Some think it was a visitor, some think it was a resident, some think it was an unfortunate accident. Who caused it or why didn’t matter much, because irreversible damage was caused regardless.

Rowan was internally destroyed and immediately out of action.

Experiencing an economic valley, Crawford couldn’t justify spending any of their limited funds on what was deemed to be low priority. The world had begun to move forward at a pace incomparable to anything before, and new maritime navigational systems reduced the need for lighthouses.

The only silver lining was that the fire fighters reached the inferno before it completely engulfed the lighthouse. Its frame remained almost in its entirety, so the residents decided that they would clean the site as best they could; Rowan would remain standing on Crawford.

As the years continued to move forward, Harley would also struggle to find a place in the world. The light was kept shining, and the building was maintained, but it was for nostalgia more than function.

Even with a lively tourism industry, Crawford never did get its economy back on the up. A further collection of budget cuts were made, and the upkeep of Harley was one of them.

Just before the sunrise of January the 1^st 1983, the last keeper made his way down Harley’s stairs. He had maintained the lighthouses for years and he had lived in Crawford even longer than that. Although he was long past the age of retirement, he chose to spend his twilight years looking after this part of the town’s heritage.

After shutting down the lighthouse for the final time, he made his way out of its door, locking it behind him.

‘Goodbye, old friend,’ said Mr. Greenson.