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A rainy morning in Dorset

Halfway up the hill, the heavens open. 

Should I stay or should I go? Should I walk back home or climb up to the summit of Bluebell Hill as planned?

It's a field-and-a-bit to the shelter of the wood beyond the time portal gate. It's half-past seven in the morning and Mr Grigg is doing a shift at the community shop. He won't be back until ten o'clock.

I stand in the middle of the field in the pouring rain and think to myself, well, I can't get any wetter. The rain has soaked through the shoulders of my coat and is running down the inside of my sleeves. I've got a hole in my left boot, despite having bought them only about six months ago. I don't have much luck with wellies. They don't make them like they used to.

I figure I'm going to get as wet going down the hill as if I go up so I plod on through the mud and aim for the gate.

Arty shoots on ahead, looking for pheasants to torment, and I trudge on regardless, my woolly hat pulled down over my head like …

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