From bed, I heard the distant cries of scores of geese flying at altitude. Pink-footed, I think. Their grating calls reminded me of school chairs being scraped over classroom floors.
Doorstepped by an amateur family historian, whose great uncle’s three-year-old son fell to his death in 1908 from the hay loft of the barn that is now our living room. Perhaps that explains the mysterious, ghostly clunks that occasionally sound at random from nobody is quite sure where.
“…wonderfully droll, witty and entertaining… At their best Carter’s moorland walks and his meandering intellectual talk are part of a single, deeply coherent enterprise: a restless inquiry into the meaning of place and the nature of self.”
—Mark Cocker, author and naturalist
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