As dawn rose, the engine groaned gently, propelling the car over the summit of a hill and slicing through an ancient wood. Emerging from the darkness, George pulled the car to a stop.

Beyond his windscreen the low horizon was a glowing cauldron, the spire of a church piercing the spreading pink and gold fire filling the sky. Before him the tarmac drifted downward, a dark river flowing steeply to the sharp silhouette of the church. George urged the car on, rolling down the hill between high hedgerows, a thrill rising in his chest. The narrow Roman arches of the church windows finally filling his view, he slowed the car and stopped again.

For the longest time he sat there, his hands wrapped around the steering wheel, moving his eyes over the hard man made edges and the softly shifting immensity above, beyond the touch of humanity. Immediately before him the road swung left, skirting a pavement and a wall of grey stone. Above the wall sat the rising walls of the church, standing on a pulpit of packed earth and the falling grave markers of the long since dead.