Around a hundred and thirty lead tablets were dropped into the hot spring at Bath, asking a goddess for justice. She never answered. They survived anyway. The reason why is the most useful thing I know about writing loss. Two thousand years ago, someone stood at the edge of a steaming pool in Somerset, scratched a message into a thin sheet of lead, and dropped it into the water. The message wasn't a prayer of any grandeur. Somebody had taken their cloak from the bath-house. T

Some places give themselves up in an afternoon. Others withhold, and ask to be read the way we read a difficult poem — slowly, twice, out loud if no one is listening. Brampton is one of the withholding kind. I went looking for its official history and found four ledgers stacked one on top of another, and then I went looking for something the ledgers could never hold. Here, first, is the poem that came out of that looking. Read it before you read anything I have to say about i