The Living And The Dead In Winsford - Plot & Excerpts
Lifting mist and a south-westerly wind. The sixth of November.A fire, a short walk towards Dulverton, breakfast, thirty pages of Bleak House. Mornings are easy. We’ve only slept in the house for four nights, but it seems as if it could have been forty. The way you live one day is the way you can live all the rest of your days – that is a recurrent thought, but I’m not sure how true it is.A group of wild ponies came to greet us. Shaggy but friendly, they seemed to us. Muddy and wet, one might add – I’m thinking of buying a pair of Wellingtons to wear instead of my walking boots.At about noon the sun began shining in earnest, and we went for a car ride to nowhere in particular. We drove northwards and eventually stopped in a little lay-by between Exford and Porlock. Up here the moor is just as barren and extensive as Mark Britton described it. You can see for goodness knows how many kilometres in all directions, and there isn’t a single building in sight. No sign of any human activity at all, barely even a tree: just heather, gorse and bracken.
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