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To walk up an old lane is to hear voices. It is the mighty dead that unlock our hearing. The narrow lane leads upwards. Overhead the houses nod to one another. They are ornate; the window frames seem tied with ribbons in shades of cream and optimism. Men and women bow their heads here to presences both mightier and more forgiving than worldly ambition. Sorrow looks back; faith looks up. When Death comes the priest is called and last prayers are said. I had come back on a visit on the spur of the moment. Whenever I came back I was within earshot of childhood. This was the prescient childhood of belief. As a child you know you are but a dot in a vast cosmos. Cathedrals are in your blood.

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