A green BMC ambulance dumped at the end of a track. Half-concealed by a cave of leaves. No further, farther to go. Beyond here, if you step over the cold stream, nothing but sheep in the fields and railway line, the tracks torn up in 63. You can follow the line, hear the sheep occasionally bleating. Come to an old railway cottage – a bungalow with a pretty garden behind a fence. Most days you pass the old man comes out. Wears a blue sweater and a black railway man's cap as if he's still expecting the ghost of a stream train to whistle through any time soon. He has a black moustache and walks as if he's carrying a load. He's always happy to stop and say hello. Pass the time of day. Philosophise on work and freedom, conforming, rebellion and how it's easier, in the long run, to just buckle down. Not what a young man wants to hear. And now I'm older I still don't. The big red and yellow flowers all in rows as you head out onto the road, iron rails making bronze lines in the pale tar. The white crossing gates with reflective red circles still in place. The landscape changing now.