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From the regularity of the straight lines between the fields of the flatlands around Ripe into the twisting roller coaster of ancient ways of the High Weald. Rolling over sandstone ridges into river valleys deeply cut into the clay. Following ancient ways scratched and scraped into the soft rock by water and footfall between the scattered dens and farmsteads. Ghylls in which you you could be lost forever, where time feels like it is slowed, or maybe folding in on itself like the steep sides of the droves. A remoteness, hidden in the hills and woodland. Exposed roots and bright moss. Mud and water stream across the lanes from fields and shaws, tarmac being slowly consumed by the soft earth on which it has been lain. The land reminding me of my temporality.

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