Knowlton
If the Gods were to squint their eyes at England, the resulting image would look a lot like Knowlton. A mass, not only of green, but also of pale indigo peppered with white and fawn. Knowlton is a place that was made to endure : settled in its routine : stubborn and not prone to flights of fancy. And yet, to lie on the grass by the neolithic ruin is somewhat like being in the presence of something quite fickle. The landscape itself can be be a little tricky. The hills, if so small mounds of packed earth may merit being called hills, seem a gentle sweeping gradient from afar but - up close - are such a peevish mixture of steepness and holes it's a wonder I made it up here at all. Perhaps, you might argue, that - rather unlike my great stone friend (the ruin that is) I am far too fanciful and this description is prone to exaggeration. And you'd be absolutely right.
Where I'd love to describe the grass as a stunning blend of viridian and lapis lazuli, I must admit that it is a colour far less appetising to Thespians and entomologists. However, I'm sure any visitor would agree that Knowlton has a certain charm that is far more potent that all the fabrications of this overzealous storyteller.
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