Last night the Narrator dreamed that he returned to Trawden, in his mind's eye He walked up Church Street once more, towards St. Mary's Church, standing there timeless and impassively in the very heart of the village, its ancient weathered stone, its weathervane pointing towards the scenic and beautiful rolling Lancashire Dales with its distinctive web of historic dry stone walls. Then he turned left and onto the row of victorian terraced houses and along the street where Lanehouse begins. Arriving at his Grandmas old house with the streetlamp still outside, memories of those countless nights sat in front of the black cast iron fireplace and hearth, the old and faded red hessayon rug, his Grandma sat there in her favourite chair by the fireside. Those long winter nights with the comforting embers of the coal fire crackling away merrily, he remembers waiting in suspense, fear and excitement for the next tale to begin. Grandma the master storyteller, recanting tales of mystery, imagination and the fearfully unexpected. This morning the Narrator woke up and a new day had dawned, a new beginning, the time has finally come, in order to move forward he knew that he must first return back. So, our Narrator sets off on a journey, bound for Lancashire, …then heading towards Trawden….Then beyond and towards Lanehouse….Lets join our Narrator on this journey.
