Some concrete rubble at the base of a tree on the plateau of Gallows Hill is all that is left of the Trig Point pillar I came to find. And anyway, there’s no longer a clear view from here: the North Downs are only a glimpse through the thicket of trees covering the side of the hill running down to the main road; any neighbouring trig points completely invisible, or similarly crumbled.
Not everything remains. We don’t find. And then we find other things that keep us connected to the world. Like this wrought iron gate I’ve passed so many times, leaning against trees and waiting to be hung from the stone pillars of Windmill House, suddenly meeting its partner and revealing its secret of peacocks, their beaks meeting, their plumed tails a swirl and rise of burnished metal.