The Malvern Hills rise suddenly out of the stretching plains of the three counties,

Thirty miles long and humped like a prehistoric beast. They hold my eyes transfixed and bring imaginings to my mind:

One fancies the panoramic view from the back of a fire-breather, swifting over the land and alighting upon his destination.

A beacon burns on the Herefordshire summit to welcome him home with his quarry. But I have not been snatched for food or ransom.

I have been sought- a chosen one, graced with the skill to defend this part of the world from its would-be ruin.

For as long as I am held in the bastion, forged by the Earth’s great fault, the orchard apples will still be the sweetest in all the land.

A by-product of the spirit within me. An energy born of the love for my home- for my familial ties which I would perish to defend, even when, owing to my unnatural longevity, I’m only defending a memory.