Late one afternoon in November, when the sky was full of troubled cloud, we set off down Corfe High Street, jackets firmly buttoned, warmed by gloves and alpaca socks -
Terraced cottages had small windows, through which you could catch glimpses of dark furniture, or silvered mirrors - shadowy figures climbed narrow stairs - lichened stone roof tiles were worn by centuries of frost and rain -
Red brick Victorian villas stood back from the narrow pavement - sun dials stood on mossy plinths, glistening laurel hid mysterious gardens -
We walked along the high chalk ridge, overlooking Corfe and Poole Harbour - yachts sailed between strangely shaped islands, along twisting creeks - sheep stared at us as we moved past them -
Once off the ridge, in Little Woolgarten, we came across a strange weatherboarded house, reached by a lane lined with hawthorn -
We all fell silent - I thought of the story, Brickett Bottom, classified by Montagu Summers as one of "malevolent mystery" - perhaps I'd hear a thin voice, calling out my name - when we came here again, all we'd see would be a tangle of brambles and contorted trees -
We turned away, heading across a boggy common towards Larksgate - there were circles of ash, where gorse bushes had been burned - an icy wind stung my face -
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