The shadow of the great novel was skulking, stalking in my footsteps, along the dusty trail towards the ‘secret spot’ where hopes and dreams were frozen on the horizon. Walking along the edge of the world the cinematic view rolled out like an old movie, from the expanse of the North Atlantic to the ruins of Bramber Castle.

Mill Hill was the gateway to the wilderness of the Downs, my place to come when recovering from a breakdown or searching for a breakthrough, depending on which way the wind was blowing or the skies aligning.

Leaving the house of spirits behind, walking over the Bridge where the fear of the fall was fading, the shadow followed, as I wound my passage through the twisted tunnels of twigs and thickets of tortured hedgerow.

By the time of reaching the sweet ‘secret’ spot, words and characters were already beginning to spawn in the bewitching heat of the Indian summer. A new destination, a new reason for being, seemed to call from this higher place of nature worship, as pausing to reflect while pouring a strong coffee, I mused over a working title as the future grew roots underfoot.