I leave my house and walk down the hill, looking west towards Hunger Hills, I can see my destination in the distance, across from me on the other side of the shallow valley, a Holloway, an old lane or possibly a drovers route and some say that it is the remains of a Roman road due to it’s flagged track way. The more likely explanation is that it is the old cart track used to transport coal from the long forgotten bell pits down to Lee lane, supplying 18th century Horsforth with fuel.
The lane sits at an obscure angle to the street, perhaps an architects attempt to ignore what is an undevelopable place. It lies at the end of a row of 1950’s semi’s, refusing to conform or update itself refusing to develop in anything other than it’s own speed. Visually the lane sinks in between the middle class pretensions of a spotted laurel and the wild free nature of the hedgerow, snugly sitting where urbanity admits defeat and relaxes into the rural.
I duck my head and plunge feet first into the void I cross a number of thresholds, the first from light to dark, the entrance has a gleefully sinister enticement about it, just enough of a view to allow me to peek inside without spoiling the whole surprise. There is a threshold of sound, of changing environments even of changing times, the street carries the industrial sounds of the twenty four hour twenty first century but within the confines of the lane, with it’s green walls of Holly, Hazel and Elder sound is diffused, muted. The sounds of the city never disappear but the Holloway allows me to readjust my focus, I can hear the rhythmical clucking of a blackbird who has perceived a threat to his domain, a bumble bee with it’s slow drone working on the field side and the scuttle, slip, swish of an unknown creature, unknown to me only, as they all belong to this Holloway, this covered passage, this green route from one world into another.