No maps. No GPS. Just instinct and the open lane. I roll through the Suffolk countryside with no set plan, stopping where the mood strikes. First a poppy-laced field that calls to mind Albion’s wild pharmacopeia—opium, mushrooms, the low hum of altered states. Then a turn down a forgotten road brings me to Barrow, a village near Bury St Edmunds. There I find a churchyard... but no church.

This is a travelogue of the in-between. A dérive through the folds of England’s haunted skin. The iron gate squeals. The tower looms. The dead lie still.

Michael Caine makes a cameo (of sorts). And the Western Lands wait.

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