This piece is an ode to the fragile beauty of post-industrial rural England: crumbling in this Brexit era (since way before, some might say) yet still holding together by some strange magic, or by force of habit. It is a sonic commentary on my new home, the North, which is in fact in the middle of the island that forms most of the country in which I settled with my family many years ago: a divided kingdom. It is a sort of anxious love song contemplating the area’s bucolic beauty, with its protected moors, its omnipresent stone walls dividing minuscule allotments, its fashionably converted f...