brambles and ivy that got gradually thicker until Mariner was waist high in them, the path indistinguishable and the ground underneath lumpy and uneven. The rain had penetrated the trees here, making the ground slippery and several times, despite his boots, Mariner rolled over on to his ankle. Cursing and swearing to himself, he persevered, ploughing his way through while thorns clawed at his clothing, until finally he came to a complete physical and metaphorical brick wall.
Mariner consulted his map. Bought specially for this trip, it was bang up to date and clearly indicated the public right of way through the grounds of the estate. He could see the main Hall, grey and imposing, hidden behind clumps of trees way off to his left. This was definitely where the path went, crossing into the country park for about a hundred metres to meet the long driveway, which went over the bridge, with pedestrian access through the impressive gates, and out on to the road. But with a blatant disregard for the right of way, the dilapidated stile had been all but removed and the public footpath sign broken off and thrown to one side. The wire fence bordering the estate was topped with dense swathes of lethal razor wire, with a particularly unfriendly sign stating that trespassers would be prosecuted.
A further notice advertised the name of the security company patrolling the grounds, along with a sketch of one of the vicious-looking dogs they employed. Row upon row of sapling conifers had also been planted, which in the not-too-distant future would provide a dense screen. Someone was suddenly keen to protect their privacy. Lord Milford, Mariner remembered, had been well liked by the community and there had never been any issue about access to his land. Clearly his successor had different ideas. It confirmed what Mariner had already guessed from the helicopter: that the old and highly traditional Lord had been succeeded by a young and modern heir.
For a few moments Mariner weighed up the risks of being bloody-minded and following the official footpath. Legally he was in the right and would be able to prove it in court. But that was a long way from the immediate physical threat of tearing his hands to shreds on razor wire, followed by a savage attack from a Doberman or two. Such security signs were often there for deterrent purposes only, and not necessarily backed up by the real thing, but whilst he couldnât see any animals anywhere, he had been conscious since dropping into the valley of a persistent barking somewhere not far away, and as further proof there was a fresh and disturbingly large turd on the other side of the fence.
Irritating as it was, the most sensible course of action was for Mariner to retrace his steps back along the path and take the alternative route to the wooden bridge, in the hope that it had been upgraded since he was last here. He was in for a disappointment. The crossing remained as flimsy and insubstantial as he remembered it and if anything had deteriorated in the intervening years. Mariner didnât fully trust it to take his weight, on top of which, months of sustained rainfall had created the added hazard of a deep and fast-flowing river rushing along immediately beneath it. It was always a toss-up in this situation of whether to tread slowly and carefully or get it over with quickly: Mariner chose the latter. Running across the planks, he made a lunge for the opposite bank, where he backslid for several agonizing seconds before he was able to grab on to a thorny branch that tore into the palm of his hand. It enabled him to get his balance and he was able to push on into the brambles and climb up to the dry-stone wall bordering the road. A scramble over the stile and he was on the road, breathless and his heart pounding. âChrist, Iâm getting too old for this,â he gasped to himself, though on the plus side, the rain had stopped.
TWELVE
O ut on the lane Mariner followed the wall along
Mariner consulted his map. Bought specially for this trip, it was bang up to date and clearly indicated the public right of way through the grounds of the estate. He could see the main Hall, grey and imposing, hidden behind clumps of trees way off to his left. This was definitely where the path went, crossing into the country park for about a hundred metres to meet the long driveway, which went over the bridge, with pedestrian access through the impressive gates, and out on to the road. But with a blatant disregard for the right of way, the dilapidated stile had been all but removed and the public footpath sign broken off and thrown to one side. The wire fence bordering the estate was topped with dense swathes of lethal razor wire, with a particularly unfriendly sign stating that trespassers would be prosecuted.
A further notice advertised the name of the security company patrolling the grounds, along with a sketch of one of the vicious-looking dogs they employed. Row upon row of sapling conifers had also been planted, which in the not-too-distant future would provide a dense screen. Someone was suddenly keen to protect their privacy. Lord Milford, Mariner remembered, had been well liked by the community and there had never been any issue about access to his land. Clearly his successor had different ideas. It confirmed what Mariner had already guessed from the helicopter: that the old and highly traditional Lord had been succeeded by a young and modern heir.
For a few moments Mariner weighed up the risks of being bloody-minded and following the official footpath. Legally he was in the right and would be able to prove it in court. But that was a long way from the immediate physical threat of tearing his hands to shreds on razor wire, followed by a savage attack from a Doberman or two. Such security signs were often there for deterrent purposes only, and not necessarily backed up by the real thing, but whilst he couldnât see any animals anywhere, he had been conscious since dropping into the valley of a persistent barking somewhere not far away, and as further proof there was a fresh and disturbingly large turd on the other side of the fence.
Irritating as it was, the most sensible course of action was for Mariner to retrace his steps back along the path and take the alternative route to the wooden bridge, in the hope that it had been upgraded since he was last here. He was in for a disappointment. The crossing remained as flimsy and insubstantial as he remembered it and if anything had deteriorated in the intervening years. Mariner didnât fully trust it to take his weight, on top of which, months of sustained rainfall had created the added hazard of a deep and fast-flowing river rushing along immediately beneath it. It was always a toss-up in this situation of whether to tread slowly and carefully or get it over with quickly: Mariner chose the latter. Running across the planks, he made a lunge for the opposite bank, where he backslid for several agonizing seconds before he was able to grab on to a thorny branch that tore into the palm of his hand. It enabled him to get his balance and he was able to push on into the brambles and climb up to the dry-stone wall bordering the road. A scramble over the stile and he was on the road, breathless and his heart pounding. âChrist, Iâm getting too old for this,â he gasped to himself, though on the plus side, the rain had stopped.
TWELVE
O ut on the lane Mariner followed the wall along
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