In the inky blackness of a Berwickshire morning, with the rusted bearings of the windmill sighing mournfully and the corrugated iron structure next to it making sounds like the tolling of a cracked ships bell….Obviously my imagination ran riot. Actually I bricked it. Which is a UK colloquialism for being a bit frit. What goes on in the mysterious structure? Is it a lift shaft that descends in to a cold war complex of humming bakelite machines and a million tins of military issue stewed steak? Or is it the cunningly disguised lid of a crashed star-cruiser piloted by a five metre high grass-hopper with carbon-fibre skin? Name of Eric?
Dunno. And to be honest, probably not. Great place for a band shoot though. In the daylight.