Around the corner the church was silhouetted against the dawn. The morning was still, with dew on the grass. A copse of trees on the hills beyond: diaphanous with the mist and the morning light. Into the graveyard, underneath the orange glow of a tungsten lamp, I’m feeling unusually nervous. Gargoyles are reaching out to a button moon, and a knotted face peers out from a horse chestnut. Next to the church is the Plough Inn where the sound of invisible horses hooves have frozen passers by. I stand and wait and watch. As the light swells into the graveyard gurning carved faces appear in the church walls. I can hear movement and see shadows heading out into the darkness of the ginnels.