I had driven the long road south, starting before dawn had finished painting the sky. Four hours later, I was almost on my local turf and feeling the usual reluctance to complete the journey. It is not just that I would prefer not to leave the north at all. Nor is it just the desire to prolong the absence from the everyday worries that are left behind for a little while on these trips, or even that I love driving, though both of those play a part.
The church has stood here since around 1100 AD and is still in use today.
There is an intimacy with the road on these occasions that is hard to explain. It becomes a living artery through which I, the land and its history flow all as one, melded in some strange way into a consciousness beyond my own meagre mind. I feel myself…
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