The first cross is stout, roughly-hewn and slightly tilting, a lonely-looking sentinel beside the road out of town. A dry stone wall isolates it from the nearby bungalows, and the grass and herbaceous plants around it have been mown short, as if the ragged-looking way marker is standing in a municipal park.
There is more semi-suburbia for the second cross, which is kept company by early morning golfers. … Read more
At some point in that vast, soggy bowl where the river Avon rises, my two ghostly companions found themselves walking circles in the mist. They were not the first or the last to blame their misfortune on the supernatural, or some other beyond-us power: “Indeed so frequently has it happened that the country folk of Devonshire call it being pixie-led.”
I wasn’t carrying an adder skin, the customary Dartmoor charm used to break a pixie’s spell, but I did have better weather as I tried to retrace their footsteps. … Read more