Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 8pm.

The attention of a low sun swaggering up Molyneux Park Road has lit up a swathe of slender bleached blonde grass heads. They stand straight, proud, brittle and not afraid.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 8pm.

The air vibrates with the scent of lime blossom. You'd think a saint had (moments before) been taken up to heaven, or that a miracle had occurred in the bracken.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 6.30pm.

He (in the turquoise shirt) has come out to eat a Mars. He (in the black shirt) has come to smoke a cigarette and swig from a bottle of water.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 6pm.

Cumulo nimbus are bearing down on the back of Mount Ephraim. These top-heavy mountains have shrunk me to the significance of an ant with a promise of torrential rain.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 2pm.

The groundsman dances his tractor mower in quick circles. His colleague spreads himself all along a bench in the oak tree shade, a strimmer catching its breath at his feet.