Scar Lane at Golcar, the bottom end, on the low wall by the ginnel. Child's shoe, left, black, the school sort with a buckle rather than laces, scuffed at the toe the way they always are. Grey morning, dry. That's the notebook, near enough word for word, and there's not a lot I'd add to it. Golcar's ginnels run steep and this one runs steeper than most, for them that know the village.
I'll say what I said in the register at the time, because folk sometimes ask. I don't linger over the children's ones any longer than the rest. Same entry, same details, same care. That's not hardness, it's the method, and the method is what the register is.
The photograph came out clear enough — clearer than most from that camera, being close work on a wall rather than summat halfway up a moor. I were home for half twelve, which the notebook notes, and I couldn't tell you what were in the sandwiches because it doesn't say. A short walk and a short entry, and five years on I've no memory of the morning at all beyond what's written. That's not a failing of the notebook. That's the notebook doing its job, which is holding what I can't.
Written up August 2026, from the notebook.