Before the Noise Began
BY DOMINIC WIGHTMAN I walked past the Old Town Hall, now a museum, its neat neoclassical facade a monument to certainties dead and buried. He was sitting on the war memorial steps opposite. A tramp, unquestionably. His face was a geological survey of the West Country; crevasses of hard winters, upheavals of cheap cider. His hands, wrapped around a can in a paper bag, were … Continue reading Before the Noise Began

