iii. Such a small lane for a bridge of such substance. Not much chance of the Perseids tonight, first-quarter moon low-slung in the south and cloud piling in from the west. One point of light near where the turbines must be, Caton Moor against sky dark against dark. An oblong glow, dull orange, hovering disembodied – must be Priory Farm up on its bluff, must be the stock shed – is the closest I come to the ghosts of this place: mediaeval cooks and farriers and priests thronging the bailey of Castle Stede by their ford, or WWII sentinels in their pill box. Headlights of a car half-a-mile away on the A683 slowly work their way south below Windy Bank to a sudden eclipse by the bulk of the motte. Jane Routh iv. |