Cherhill white horse. A walk through oceans of green. The turf covered chalk downs like a frozen tidal surge, wheat fields rippling in the wind and the trees rolling sand roaring. At one with it all. The eye of the horse a sarsen stone no squire’s brandy bottles or tourists beer bottles but a stone older than ice age and reverberating with mystery. What did we think about? The crumbling tower. The momentum building of our walk. Shape and feeling of the landscape, washed by the invisible power of the wind. In our heads thoughts of the sea and under our feet remnants of live in prehistoric oceans. We looked out over the edge.