Far inland, beyond the Poundbury Royal Estate, the sleepy town of Dorchester was shrouded in a thick haze of mist. Beyond the pea-soup cloud at the crest of the hill lay the ancient monument of Mai Dun. This longbarrow earthworks was once the capitol of England. The largest hill-fort in the land, rivalled not even by Wiltshire's plethora of barrows, nor even the sacred space of Stonehenge. This was the time of Celtic Britain, before Vespasian targeted the chieftans hut with a precision artillery strike, bringing Mai Dun under the Roman yoke.
Now though, it lay beyond sight, and all but abandoned save strollers and dog-walkers, usually on a sunny Sunday, which would be the morrow. A coach wove its way through the narrow lanes covered with arched branches of interweaving trees, everyso often giving way to a small church, or Georgian house, in an idyllic quaint village, flanked by a stream.
Gillie was on his way to meet her...
