Looking inwards through the broken windows of this abandoned cottage it seemed that time itself had held its breath since the householder passed to another landscape more than a decade ago. The door was no longer guarding the inner sanctuary of the silent years and I crept slowly inside. The threadbare curtain’s unexpected movement acknowledged the long overdue intruder as a sudden Atlantic breeze breathed through the unglazed window — a pneuma moving over the deep waters filling some priestly surplice. Outside, the rooks mark the liturgical moment. It signalled the last days before nature quietly reclaimed its ground.

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