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   A beautiful little village in Cheshire, North England. The Edge is a stark cliff over the village. My memory of the Edge is that it looks like a swell of moorland rises up into a crest and falls off into a huge sheer bomb crater. The Edge is riddled with abandoned mine shafts and ghosts. One ghost is said to be a naked hirsute man that peeps into village windows at night and disappears if spoken to. A better known story is that King Arthur is lies asleep with his standing army beneath the Edge waiting for the day Merlin will call them to ride out and save England from defeat at the hands of her enemies.

   My grandmother lived on a quiet lane of hedges and flowers just outside of the village. Her stone house was surrounded by gardens and a fruit orchard. The orchard was flanked by a wide pasture field rented to local farmers as grassland. A public foot path ran through the trees between her gardens and those of her neighbor and along the field away from the house. At the edge of her property the path slipped over a solid rock bridge hunkered down since the last century over the sunken nettle-thick right-of-way of the blisteringly high speed electric line to London.

   I spent as much time as I could playing in the field after it was just mowed. Rolling bales and collecting hay scraps into huge mountains. The moment I heard the whirring twang of the wires approaching I ran as fast as I could diagonally across the field, up the bridge to hang over and watch the blue and yellow locomotive fly beneath at a hundred and fifty million miles an hour.

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