Before satellites and radio beacons, a coastline was read by its lights. A keeper climbed the stairs at dusk, trimmed the wick, and set the lamp turning. Ships offshore counted the seconds between flashes, and the rhythm told them which headland they were passing.
That rhythm was the whole idea. Two lighthouses within sight of one another were never given the same pattern, because a sailor reading them in fog had nothing else to go on. The interval was the name of the place.
Most towers are automatic now, and the keepers have gone. The lamps still turn, still counted out in seconds, still saying the same thing to anyone who knows how to listen.