On Blackford Down we are caught between transmitter and receiver. We know there's signal, but all we get is psychic noise. Our hands read moss as braille maps of the stars, become possessed by stone synesthesia where shape becomes the song of the land to the heavens. – #MattAdams
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@HooklandGuide There are places where the land sings like a thrash metal band vocalist. Its lyricism twisted and contorted by the weight of urban expansion, the hoarse screams of the green pasture under tarmac.