The Hills of Doggerland
More things happen at edges than at the centre. Dusk or dawn are better times to uncover secrets than the harsh hours of midday. Spring and autumn bring out the hidden and the slow in ways that summer and winter do not. The movement from problem to solution, that mental cliff edge of creation, is so much more exciting than the routine of production. We gravitate towards the coast with its tide pools and estuaries, with its edges both temporal and spatial. Tides and times. Boundaries and borders. And for me back in the UK, there is a strong pull towards the here and the past – that most intractable boundary of all. We headed north towards Northumbria, close to a political line that would soon be given the chance (rejected) to become thicker on the map and in doing so create a new edge of sorts. Not really looking for edges as such, but knowing full well that we would find them. Up the A1, the old Great North Road, the older Ermine Street, past places I