tales from the van

Journey tales – Canterbury

A tale started on an accidental journey to Cantebury The world is bleak. The sky a flat featureless grey that hangs dull and heavy. It is so weighted to ebb at the edges and smother the far trees and hills, leaching them of colour. It sits as if, in one out breath, it will sink and cover the land in sleep. It is held back only by a sharp inconstant wind that appears, turns, bites, stops and is gone. A reminder that sleep may be a terminal choice. Canterbury is still many miles walk and Thomas will be lucky to …

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The grit pierces your fingertips. If you’ve sanded wood you might have felt the different grains of sandpaper. Even a well climbed gritstone boulder is like the roughest of these. There are odd footsteps, often on the easier climbs, at the start of which there is a single obvious move needed to reach from the floor. There you’ll get a tiny patch of stone that is like marble, an edge that has been pressed, rubbed so many times it becomes slick to the touch. The harder the climb, the fewer the feet that have edged, the rougher, the better the stone. …

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