Walking through a field of rapeseed, imagining that I was Fox Mulder

One deep part of my mind, obscure and dimly lit, is drawn to what others might call the irrational - I read foxed paperbacks about UFOs with eager relish - I shiver when I see a blurred photograph of ectoplasm, spilling out of the mouth of a Victorian medium - I am still an avid fan of the X Files - I trace ley lines upon maps - when I walked along the shore of Loch Hourn with Jay and Richard, I looked out for selkies -

One warm April, I visited Ringstead Bay - the footpaths led us over pasture, past silent farms - in one barn I saw a London taxi parked next to a piece of fierce machinery - Richard wore his foreign legion's hat - when in Cagayan de Oro, he'd used an old umbrella to keep off the sun -

We walked along trackways, chalk and flint beneath our feet - we climbed over stiles, shaded by trees gorgeous with new leaves - wild flowers gleamed like careless gifts - we sat on drifts of pebbles by a still pale blue sea - a small yacht was moored close to the shore - the air was salty and warm - a lithe girl sunbathed on a patch of fine sand -

On the way back, we walked across a field of rape seed - the intense yellow of the crop was hyperreal - each side of us the field billowed like a brilliant sail - all was silent -

We then saw a machine, with what looked like wings, spraying the rape seed - it moved swiftly through the waist high flowers - mysterious and remorseless - I thought that we were in an episode of the X Files -

Perhaps we would be pursued by this winged machine, chased through the field - breathe in some narcotic dust from the yellow flowers - wake up in some gleaming facility -

I thought of how the surface of things hides fearful wonders -