Walking a fine line, divided by barbed wire. All the prohibitions and warnings. On the one side death and war and on the other, life. I remembered the Woody Guthrie lyric. Either side of the line similar technology used for opposite purposes surveillance and photography, communications borne out of the desire to survive. Walked past living trees scarred by the carvings of soldiers long dead. They left their mark before loosing their lives for king and country. Patriotism betrayed. We walked on imagining a stream of people walking up the lane out of Imber and down the deep track away. Would they have believed us if we had told them they would never get their homes back? Churchill’s Christmas promise would never be fulfilled? Elsewhere people gave pots and pans, railings, here where soldiers trained to take lives people gave their homes. Patriotism betrayed.
Then we too came out of the wind and the squall into a sheltered gulley where the sun shone through the trees. Through an idyllic English village to a millstream. Water powered automatons. Playful. A stick man on a bicycle doffing his hat old yoghurt pots and flowerpots scooping the clear urgent water.
Finally up to the top surfing the wind powering off the concrete whitewashed surface of the horse. A granny and son stayed with it all day. The wind was real, the white horse a concrete replica a reminder of the silent concrete works below.