"This is wonderful," she said in her soft, American accent, stopping by the remains of a tree which had been chopped down and sawn into nine or ten chunky blocks. Damp, matted strands of sawdust trailed around the fresh clearing, like bleached bloodstains marking a place of death.

"I know. I love it. I always have." I turned and looked behind us. It felt as though we had been walking in a straight line, but as our eyes tracked back along the bank of the river, we could see its gentle turn northwards; and looking forward we saw it continue to roll north for perhaps another hundred yards or so before it meandered back, calmly, unhurriedly, into its natural line.

This was my place, my secret world where I grew up, where singular childhood dreams were formed and thoughts were shaped and hopes were cast, where I wandered alone and wondered aloud and discovered who I am. I was an only child, sombre and serious, a girl content in my own company and my own space, and the river had been my refuge. It was my escape from the pains of growing up, from the awkwardness of relationships and the embarrassment of being an outsider. The river passed no judgement, nor showed any impatience, but rather left me to learn. Walking now through this haunt of my youth, hand in hand with Carlee, it seemed at once familiar and mysterious, a thrilling mixture of nostalgia and anticipation.

The physical landscape came back to me first: those memorable kinks and twists in the river and the curious, tree-studded islands, flat and somehow passionless, which rose in its midst; the stone-strewn shallows where the water rippled slow and sleek like a hand caressing a lover's body; those moments when the path broadened, forming impromptu and improbable sandy beaches; and the huge, smoke-streaked boulder at the back of one of those beaches where we used to light our fires; the dark overhangs and treacherous skirts along the bank of the river - especially that point, a mile back, where my father had fallen in, those many years before, flapping and scrabbling, twisting in the current as he tried to save our picnic hamper, before finally composing himself and standing, laughing in the velvet water. I saw it all again, for the first time in eighteen years, familiar and happy, the past made real. Or rather, moments in the past.

And as we walked, Carlee and I, as I shared my old love with my new, the mysterious layers of memory began to unravel and I was drawn into the sense of those times, those days; the smells, the sensations, the moods, the thoughts billowing from the recesses of recall, an evocation of another time, another me. And we walked and I observed the names carved for posterity in the barks of the mighty beeches. Mine was there somewhere, cut by my father when I was a baby, and I remembered my teenage search, week after week, fruitless to the last, for that precious evidence of his paternal pride; I remembered the sense of hope and anticipation I had felt on those days as I scoured the trees, seeking that connection with my past. And now, walking again beneath those trees, eighteen years later, I felt that same sweet, fragile hope and I tried to conjure up the moment: a woman of thirty-six searching for memories of a girl aged eighteen, looking for evidence of a new born baby. Connections in time, and a time to connect.

And love, oh yes, love. I found love on this lane, beneath these trees, beside this water, those years ago: body to body, breast to breast, fingers entwined, jaws together and heads raised, looking at the stars, lovers unique in the universe; and staring into each other's eyes, reading our pasts and guessing our future, betraying our fears and exalting our love. Thoughts jostled in my head, planting not just memories, but the very sensation of first experiencing them, as though I were transplanted in time to those days of my youth. I remembered being the girl who was going to fall in love with literature itself, devote her life to Byron and Shelley, Keats and Wordsworth; and in the moment of recall I became, once more, that girl, found myself consumed anew by the zeal of discovery.

And so we walked; and so my past flooded my present; and so, and so.

A deer stood stock still in the dip of a field across the river, and I couldn't tell if it was in the past or the present. Whichever, I was surprised, surprised to see it so far from the hill, from the comfort of the trees, from the safety of remoteness. I nodded to Carlee and she spotted it, just at the moment when it took fright and bolted for cover, but she saw it and I was pleased. We watched it disappear, legs and torso glidingly perfect, elegance and beauty begotten by fear.

"What do you call this place?" Carlee asked as we turned to move.

"Its proper name is Margaret's Walk. After Lady Margaret Bannerman Fitzhugh."

"Great name. Who is she?"

"God knows. Some nineteenth century toff, I think. Probably owned the place. But what I call it is the Hallow Road."

We walked on and the path began to narrow, its broad, confident sweep dwindling until it was little more than an apologetic adjunct to the river, cleaved to its side and crumbling down its banks. In places we had to walk in single file, Carlee leading the way, her hand behind her, gripping mine confidently - the intrepid explorer encouraging her nervous companion. Ahead of us, the trees began to close in, branches hanging low over the water, casting damp shadows on the leaf-strewn ground and causing the temperature to drop discernibly. For the first time, a twinge of doubt entered my mind.

The Hallow Road.

I hadn't used that expression in years.

"The Hallow Road?" she said, her accent making the words sound impossibly exotic. "That's nice. What does it mean?"

"Doesn't mean anything, I don't think. It's only me who calls it that. I just like the sound of it. I wrote a poem, once, called 'The Hallow Road'." I stared cautiously into the distance and a slight shiver ran down my spine at the memory.

Hallow Road, confess your soul.

"Cool. Can you remember it?"

"No, not at all." I closed my eyes but despite myself the lines of the poem began to insinuate themselves into my mind.

Reveal your secret, swear parole.

"It was a long time ago," I continued. "A pale imitation of Shelley, I seem to recall."

"What was it about?"

"Oh, love..." I said it airily, sounding more detached than I felt. "Aren't all poems about love, in the end? And death, I suppose. Two sides of the same coin, aren't they? Love and death, beginning and end, hope and despair. Hard to write about one without the other butting in, one way or another."

"Oh, you need to lighten up, girl. When you first fall in love, death is the last thing you think about." Carlee gripped my arm and squeezed it, pressing her cheek to mine and passing her arm around my waist, pulling me towards her in affection. Despite the coldness of her cheek, the warmth of the gesture thrilled me. "Sex," she whispered conspiratorially, as though imparting a great secret, "that's what you think about when you first fall in love. Sex. Am I right?"

And how could I deny it, with Carlee's arms entwined around me and her breath cool on my neck?

"Yeah, maybe, but I was a teenager at the time, remember. It's strange how teenagers think they're immortal, and yet they're obsessed with death."

"Yeah, I suppose so. Death's cool, as long as it's someone else's."

I laughed and pressed her hand tighter against my waist. But no, I thought, let's not talk of death, not here. Not here, of all places. Looking ahead I could see the old wooden gate which marked the end of Margaret's Walk. And beyond that 3;

A worm of uncertainty was squirming in my stomach and for the first time I began to doubt the wisdom of coming back here. Moods can transmute, shift in an instant. As I saw the gate, the pleasant memories which had accompanied our walk evaporated and were replaced by one single, glaring, heart-rending image and the tranquility of the moment was broken by a fleeting glimpse of things best left unbidden. I shook my head, as though literally trying to shake the demons from it, and as Carlee turned to see what I was doing I kissed her on the cheek. She smiled, her round, blue eyes bright in the pale sun.

"Okay?" she asked, laughing.

"Yeah, perfect," I replied.

But as we walked on, past the dilapidated bailiff's hut, towards the little wooden gate, I knew there was worse to come.

I knew we were nearing the Ripley House.

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