with a glance back to the flooded Meadow, the hillside cubes of the Radcliffe glowing silver in the low sun. And here a woodland hideaway come the zombie apocalypse, a quad bike and walls of tinned food in the scullery. No mark of the city, barely two miles distant. They don’t clear the split branches and dead trees, it gives the woods a creepy, untended air. This is a place to read ghost stories, with your back turned to an open door and the dusk. My grandfather used to flick through his Hitchcock Presents paperbacks in the basement of his towering terrace, green linoleum and the retired operating chair bulky in the shadows. He read with door open to a lonely alleyway, a glass of Black Label within easy reach. I’ll take some MR James out to the woods next time the family agree to a yurt or dome excursion. I’ll read out the scare stories, teasing the silence, welcome in the New Year and the shrinking dark.
