These stones are heavy and ancient, modern technology seems flimsy. In my bag I have a laptop and a turnip. I start to think in decades and centuries rather than days and months. This wall has stood for 150 years, how long will my part remain? In the fading light the farm is timeless and two huge horses appear like time travellers out of the mist. When I was a kid, there were bones of working horses down by the shore, left where they were shot by farmers forced to replace them by tractors. Now, like in this poem by Edwin Muir, they have returned. Just as these islands seem impossible when I'm in London, these days friends online talking about Japanese restaurants and pop up bars and the tube at rush hour seem preposterous. My fingernails are dirty and this wind-tangled hair reminds me of how I was growing up, chasing the dogs under gates.
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