We broke into an amphitheatre, we covertly filmed in a museum, we visited the house of Arthur Machen. Then we drove West fast.
5000ft above sea level, enveloped by cloud, chasing the tale of Harry Grindell-Matthews, we found ourselves somewhere where we perhaps should not have been. At the end of a rough dirt track a series of buildings surrounded by barbed wire and electric fences. No signs of life but an indication of the living in the form of three 4X4 vehicles parked within the compound. A sinister atmosphere felt by all, something not quite right. Emaciated pine trees dotted the perimeter in a precise but odd distribution. A sense that we were being observed made concrete by realising that that very tall telegraph pole near the gate was crowned with a spherical CCTV camera. Keep Out.
Why the high security? What had we found? An MOD facility? Some serious pharming? A safe house? Were Sergei and Yulia Skripal inside?
Later, at the peak of yet another mountain that was more cloud than earth, we saw a ghost. It looked like Auntie Mary.
