After departing, movement. After movement, arrival. Nothing remains still for long.
The old cottage greets us with layers. Youthful apple trees augment the medieval church. Freshly pealed bell tolls pass through ancient yew branches, sliced like onions to announce the hour. Plastered walls, jutting out with unannounced history, offer up modern electricity, and the uneven floor fools me into thinking I'm already drunk.
I wander through this novel labyrinth, taken in by the mix of new and old. Everything we do builds on what came before us, but here the levels contrast more certainly. We believe we are futuristic and free of a past so inefficient and judgmental, yet it's all just levels on levels on levels. An existence of archaeology.
I take in the tree blossoms, the crows' nests, the smell of manure, and I wonder how long the gravel I'm walking on has been there.