I would hardly be surprised to see William and his lot approach outwith the moist with a file of shrill fifes and drill right through us. The Rat-Rat-Tat-Tat of thin goat skin bright and hard by taut linen skein. Muffled by the mist the translation is low and bass. Known as The Dark Hedges of Armoy here. Half a mile of silver Beeches planted in 1750 that have arched over and clasped. We arrived at dusk in anticipation of the reputed Grey Lady who walks the lane. Soon enough. A soft battalion of July Drums floats over the fields.
I hear the fence has been replaced road-side with neon green shiny plastic and the poetry of the vista is ruined now. Landowner's right of course. Yet he is just one generation passing through. It is a privledge and a responsibility to be the keeper of these extraordinary trees for a time. Oh well sigh the photographers, sure we can do it in black and white.