Suicide Coppice, on the south side of the Gorge. It’s all rain all the way through. Straps, belts and bleached ropes of every kind dangle from the branches. The trees lean away down the scarp to the decommissioned power station. You can see the river but not the opposite bank. Folks have been doing away with themselves up here for nigh on two hundred years; doing away with yourself replaced the earlier industries of lime and charcoal burning. You can still hear them asking one another, “Orright then?” “Orright.” Even the dogs look unhappy.
I’d kill myself too, but on a morning like this it would seem like imposter syndrome.