
Genius Loci: Mid-week-pick-me-up
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Beneath its surface, the meadow seems to live and breath — buttercups, sorrel, long grass — all caught in the current, wriggling and swaying as if in conversation with the stream. I sit beside it and stay for a while.
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And so it seems fitting—uncannily fitting—that the man standing in the rubble should bear the name he did. Piper. Pipe. Conduit.
I walk down through the nave, drawn towards a doorway that cradles a rarefied luminescence — a mingling of dappled colour from stained glass, the glint of refracted light on metal, and a hint of the golden radiance that spring has blessed us with this year.
There’s a quote by Pablo Neruda that illustrates how I feel: “There is another reality, the genuine one, which we lose sight of. This other reality is always sending us hints, which without art, we can’t receive.”
If the Grand Tour were still a rite of passage, this would be one of its stopping places — visited not for splendour but for its pleasing dereliction.
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