landowning classes, with the imposing grey edifice of the Hall in the centre. Between those two properties, strung out along the road and hidden by the trees from this angle, was Marinerâs destination: the village of Caranwy. He could just see the two tiny dormer windows of a hostel attic poking out between the high branches. From here it looked as if little had changed in terms of development. As he stood watching, a shot rang out, echoing around the hills. Mariner started for a moment until remembering where he was; it would be either clay-pigeon shooting or automatic bird-scarers, both completely harmless. Context is everything, he thought wryly.
Mariner swept the scene with the binoculars and they came to rest on the farm. A movement attracted his attention and into his line of vision, behind the outbuildings, came two men in conversation. The powerful 10 x 42 lenses of the binoculars brought the figures close enough to seem within reach and two factors made the scene compelling. One was the contrast in their attire. Although both men looked young, one was casually dressed in jeans and a checked shirt, but the other was more formal and strangely out of place in the environment, wearing a dark suit, tight across the shoulders, complete with tie. Mariner remembered the misapprehension of the barmaid in The Star and immediately thought sales rep, though he could see no telltale BMW parked nearby. The other interesting factor was their body language. Both men were leaning in, shoulders back, like two young stags squaring up, which meant either that one of them was hard of hearing, or that this was some kind of confrontation. But in the few seconds that Mariner watched, the dispute, if thatâs what it was, seemed to be amicably resolved, as the man in the suit visibly relaxed, clapping the other companionably on the shoulder. There followed an awkward handshake, of the kind Mariner had seen many times on the street corners of Birmingham. Then, in perfect synchronization, both men looked skyward, as Mariner too became aware of the low pulsating throb of rotor blades. Rising up from behind Gwennol Hall came a small, private helicopter that flew out over the estate and farm, roared over Marinerâs head and disappeared over the mountain behind him, into the darkening sky. When he looked back at the farm, the two men had gone. At the same time he felt the first splattering of rain on his head.
Stowing his binoculars, Mariner set off down the mountain towards the Caranwy valley, picking up a footpath heâd trodden many times before, and he confidently followed its winding course down off the tops, over craggy outcrops and into the pastureland below. Where the land began to flatten out the path became a muddy bridleway that ran between hedges, the fields of Abbey Farm on either side, sloping down towards the forest-covered ravine at the bottom of which ran the river. This was an infrequently used trail and as it approached the woodland became increasingly overgrown.
At the edge of the woods he came to a drystone wall with an integral stile and crudely painted way mark pointing both left and right, and he climbed over it and into the cover of the trees just as the shower really took hold. The woodland covered several square acres with a network of footpaths, and Mariner had two options for getting to a river crossing. To the right would take him a mile or so along the trail to a rudimentary bridge that used to comprise just a couple of rotting old railway sleepers, then through more woodland and up on to the road. To the left would take him out into the parkland and on to the drive of the Milford estate, to cross the river by a wide stone bridge that supported Gwennolâs grand entrance gates. He chose that as the more reliable option, taking care to assess his bearings regularly and avoid going round in circles. All went to plan initially, but after about twenty metres the grass grew longer and intermingled with
Mariner swept the scene with the binoculars and they came to rest on the farm. A movement attracted his attention and into his line of vision, behind the outbuildings, came two men in conversation. The powerful 10 x 42 lenses of the binoculars brought the figures close enough to seem within reach and two factors made the scene compelling. One was the contrast in their attire. Although both men looked young, one was casually dressed in jeans and a checked shirt, but the other was more formal and strangely out of place in the environment, wearing a dark suit, tight across the shoulders, complete with tie. Mariner remembered the misapprehension of the barmaid in The Star and immediately thought sales rep, though he could see no telltale BMW parked nearby. The other interesting factor was their body language. Both men were leaning in, shoulders back, like two young stags squaring up, which meant either that one of them was hard of hearing, or that this was some kind of confrontation. But in the few seconds that Mariner watched, the dispute, if thatâs what it was, seemed to be amicably resolved, as the man in the suit visibly relaxed, clapping the other companionably on the shoulder. There followed an awkward handshake, of the kind Mariner had seen many times on the street corners of Birmingham. Then, in perfect synchronization, both men looked skyward, as Mariner too became aware of the low pulsating throb of rotor blades. Rising up from behind Gwennol Hall came a small, private helicopter that flew out over the estate and farm, roared over Marinerâs head and disappeared over the mountain behind him, into the darkening sky. When he looked back at the farm, the two men had gone. At the same time he felt the first splattering of rain on his head.
Stowing his binoculars, Mariner set off down the mountain towards the Caranwy valley, picking up a footpath heâd trodden many times before, and he confidently followed its winding course down off the tops, over craggy outcrops and into the pastureland below. Where the land began to flatten out the path became a muddy bridleway that ran between hedges, the fields of Abbey Farm on either side, sloping down towards the forest-covered ravine at the bottom of which ran the river. This was an infrequently used trail and as it approached the woodland became increasingly overgrown.
At the edge of the woods he came to a drystone wall with an integral stile and crudely painted way mark pointing both left and right, and he climbed over it and into the cover of the trees just as the shower really took hold. The woodland covered several square acres with a network of footpaths, and Mariner had two options for getting to a river crossing. To the right would take him a mile or so along the trail to a rudimentary bridge that used to comprise just a couple of rotting old railway sleepers, then through more woodland and up on to the road. To the left would take him out into the parkland and on to the drive of the Milford estate, to cross the river by a wide stone bridge that supported Gwennolâs grand entrance gates. He chose that as the more reliable option, taking care to assess his bearings regularly and avoid going round in circles. All went to plan initially, but after about twenty metres the grass grew longer and intermingled with
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