A tragedy a girl fell from a motorway bridge was it anther suicide? The Foureyed Poet.

It is hard not to feel lucky when you escape grave danger.

Encouraging you to consider if life is all about free choice or destiny.

Parallel with the river, a canal, built long ago by a bishop. The charcoal burners danced here and guns were forged. Peace under the leaves in cool dark pools belies the darkness of our history, while men toiled for bread and ale.

It’s damned kind of you to give me a lift, mate. Damned kind.