The search for Americana in the East Riding…lone farm houses at the end of long dusty tracks…rusting cars and boats scattered around out-buildings, some of the cars still have intact windscreens…miles of horizon that deny curvature…a river, swollen and dirty, weighted with great ocean going vessels…lurking tidal creeks with battered small boats, with mold-edged windows that haven’t been opened for years, rocking on the water, rigging ticking against metal the only noise apart from the wind…and in the cemetery of the only church for all the flat miles around, spire like the spindle on a turntable, the graves of the Reverend Churchyard and his daughter Beatrice, just waiting for the next Nick Cave song to come along a sweep them up into legend.

Stone Creek; a place to go to understand the coruscating loneliness of existence.


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