Heartlands

This was a curious return to the world of people. A work trip to Salisbury Plain. I travelled there in darkness and stayed in the cheapest and most literally sterile of all possible hotels. The hotel had Stonehenge in its name and white van druids peered wistfully into the locked and bolted Greggs praying for relief. I drove home  in the late afternoon. The summer still lies in the sky, not quite defeated. Its white clouds are torn and the sky is dark and bruised. The fluffy white crumbles of cloud against that stormy dark echoed the billowing lines of trees across the rolling hills of this most English heartland. Each tree starting to turn, green blood draining to a wash of hazel browns and butter yellows.