‘Of all the ways of using history, Nostalgia is the most general, looks the most innocent and is perhaps the most dangerous’. (Malcolm Chase)
A woman in a wedding dress moves across the fell, stumbling over the heather and dipping below the horizon. Her veil caught up with the clouds. She walks towards the emerald green field below, crisscrossed with ditches, riven with ancient pathway lines, reaching out to the vast pool of water, iron-ore smudged with a circle of birds swooping to catch their evening meal. Stop. Breathe. Catch a moment. Listen to the wind. Check the heartbeat.
Down further to a wood; pass the fallen sheep,picking her way carefully over the mounds of buried animal debris. Light shafts piercing the dark maze of tangled trees.
A thin slither of smoke rises from a chimney. She continues to walk down over the crest of the quarry, slithering ungainly, losing a foothold, scrambling again towards the village. A swerve down again left handed to the road; pause for a moment, head off towards the main road.