Clive built a horse-drawn caravan by scaling up the plans for a model. He travelled round Britain in the caravan for a decade, with his dog, doing agricultural work.
When the dog died he buried it in the wood, & made it a monument like a low curved wall out of Horsham stone, where it lay for twelve months before badgers & foxes dug it up & ate it.
Clive haunts the wood. He shifts easily between its layers of time. He knows where everything is. He knows what you can eat. There are endless ways you can make a fire.
He won’t get another dog.