Twenty
Cambervale had been tidied up since I was last here. The tangle of brambles on the slopes had disappeared and been replaced by rhododendrons and azaleas and a path that wound along the banks of the stream. I stuck to the path for a while, trying to get my bearings. From time to time I came across a tree or part of the bank I remembered but they were like islands in an unknown sea. I’d lost the knowledge that linked them together.
Where was the b****y mine? I’d thought it would all come back to me when I got here but it hadn’t. I was heading for the entrance to the lower of the two levels, known rather uninspiringly as ‘Number 2 level’. I was sure, though, that it wasn’t by the stream so I left the path and clambered up the slope. It was a typical Cornish day: soft, grey and damp.
