crests Shotover Wood and we’re down into the next village to eat pancakes in a cafe terrace. There are homes and silent glades here I never guessed at, unseen views to the plain and the motorway embankment curling away to the Cut. We step off the track to let a rider pass. Tramp a few miles and you’re in another land, a stranger in your own town. How can I know the world and the people in it when I don’t even know what hides in this wood? When all of us are passing riders or walkers, not even a word exchanged.