13/10/2026
A wounded hill, a place of prehistoric ancestors, historic mining and war time listening station. Scarred by human kind activity for thousands of years, going back at least to the 2500BCE, and still be nibbled away at for road stone, quarries cutting into Iron Age ramparts. A place of wind and ravens, starkly beautiful, its heather combed by fierce winds but here and there hollows where sheep and a wandering wild woman might settle in for a snooze in the sunshine. A place of ancient voices, barely heard echoes of faded songs. In the beginning perhaps a place to inter the bones of ancestors, and cover them over with stone, perhaps tuck a pot of cremation ashes into a the dark soil under a low cairn of rocks before returning by to the benevolent valleys below. Not so far in miles to revisit from time to time, a constant reminder of your venerated loved ones , passed beyond the veil still looking over the living. Wounded the hill may be but the place holds whispers of a once ongoing relationship between living and dead, not sad but strangely liberating.
There’s nowhere in these lands that our past has not been woven into the land, ancestors footsteps, peoples so long forgotten even their relatives are vanished from our genes….but if you are quiet and attentive perhaps you can catch a whisper.
🌀
