The Lanes have existed for a very long time. Certain families are compelled to navigate the lanes endlessly on long summer days, through sunny autumns and cold winters. They are rewarded in the spring by blossom-filled hedges and magical encounters. A tiny red deer runs across from verge to field. Mysterious statues lurk at the edge of a churchyard. The gravestones will move, apparently by themselves. There isn’t a breath of wind but the cyclist’s breathing is stirring the air as they toil uphill. The Lanes are steep.

As summer deepens The Lanes grow leafier and darker. There are many incidences of plummeting downwards into a dank hole. The bottom is shadowy but sunlight breaks through, sometimes highlighting a river or a pool where swimmers cry. The Lanes never pause but climb straight up again to the flatter fields, full of pale grass with hills in the distance. So many Ways that connect. It is easy to lose yourself and end up adding many miles to your journey. This can be a problem as evening approaches and the sun starts to disappear.