For a decade, often setting off at dawn from the centre of the water-logged Recreation Ground,
always in a new direction, I would walk to the edges of this place. With the ghostly play-horse
as compass, I stumbled into an accidental exploration of the hallucinatory textures of a small-town.
With a scuffed and borrowed camera and permanently damp notebook, I became increasingly convinced
that almost everything I needed was within a four mile radius of the horse's sad and peeling eyes. Perhaps it is.