A Poet's Journey
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....dazzling sunlight is suddenly reflecting from the rain-coated skin of the fruit, and I notice an unusual presence walking along beside me for a few minutes, someone I haven’t seen for a while: my shadow. (p 179)
I also have to question the extent to which the final ascent of Sleightholm Moor can legitimately be termed a ‘path’, when in all honesty it is a quagmire, half a mile of sticky toffee pudding and black treacle with just the odd tussock to leap for. The mud, when I stand in it, which is unavoidable, is reluctant to let go, and wants to rive off my boots and my trousers as well given half a chance, and I make several detours left and right looking for a land-bridge or something with grass on it, only to be blocked by either a swamp, a flooded ditch, a stream in full flow or one of those ghostly, rheumy ponds of standing water which in the film version of this escapade would be full of severed heads. Finally, having splashed off the moor on all fours, sodden and dripping and cold, I turn around and look back over the wet, shifting horizons ad the heaving summits, and at the rain-filled and swelling moors. More than anything else, it looks like the ocean. (p 170)
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