Off-road, over wall, cross footbridge – to a place unheard of, barely mapped, un-named.
Hidden deep in sparse moorland, a small river valley furrows its way to the sea, several miles beyond any visible horizon.
Moss and lichen coat ancient walls, like melted chocolate over truffles. The river, and birdsong, provide the only theme-tune available; or necessary.
Storms torrents fight for race-space around the many obstacles along their course. Carving stone – and memories – in their flight.
Through calmer pastures the river continues its journey to meet the sea.
Following by road is no penance; for here they seem woven of emerald ribbon in the afternoon sun.
More hidden secret spaces beckon alongside – but this time I trace the river to the sea.
And – ‘tho I’m told one should never begin a sentence with “and” – what a sea.
On this coast is a beach, Mossyard, of which people dream – until they’re driven to return.
Caught in it’s slipstream.