Out in the open

Grey Tor, an outcrop of dolomitic limestone just outside Winster, where my father lives. When he and my stepmother first moved here they named the house after it. When they moved again (from West to East Bank) the new owners changed the name to a less interesting one. Now my stepmother is buried just a short walk from the original Grey Tor. When she died, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, she was younger than I am now.

I clambered to the top, which is secluded by hawthorn trees, and noticed a pair of black jersey boxers in the undergrowth. Now I can imagine situations in which a chap might want to remove them up there, but am not at all sure why he would not put them back on before descending.