The Edge of the World is a cliff of fossil coral reef that stops in mid-air two hundred metres above a plain. It stands on the Tuwaiq escarpment northwest of Riyadh, in Saudi Arabia, and the pale stone under your boots was a reef of corals and sponge-like animals in a shallow sea. The plain below is a second seabed, older than the reef on top of it, so the ammonites and sea urchins turn up down there rather than in the wall. Getting to the rim takes the better part of an hour once the tarmac gives out, on an unmarked line of rock, gravel and sand. You crest the plateau and find the ground simply gone. That is the point of arriving that way.
A squat tower of reef rock juts out from the escarpment with nothing beneath it, and you walk the neck out to its tip, where the name stops being a phrase. The last hour of light is the hour for it: the wall goes from honey to copper, the plain flattens into haze, and everyone still out on the point turns to silhouette. From an empty length of rim away from the crowded prow, the floor two hundred metres down starts to resolve — low ridges, braided dry channels, and specks that after ten unhurried minutes turn out to be camel herds working the wadis. Most Saudis who come here are not here for an hour. They camp along the escarpment, arriving with the sun already low, watching the plain drain of colour from the rim; the nights are cold and the sky properly black, and at dawn the cliff throws its own long shadow west across the floor below. Locally this is not the Edge of the World but the End of it, and in everyday speech simply the Overlook. Along the rim you keep crossing long fissures that run parallel to the drop, some wide enough to step over, falling away into the dark. Each one is a block the escarpment has not shed yet.