We knew the history of the area, of course; br reckoning that with a Heritage Site br just over the hill br planning permits would be hard to get br and the rolling landscape, and our own prized view, br would stay that way. br br Clearing the ditch beyond the orchard, br by the line of old trees, br I found it. br A musket. br still loaded (I realised later, cleaning it up) br and a scrap of disintegrating coloured cloth br still with a button on it. br br A button. br br It was the button br that put paid to my former life: br as if with the harsh scrape of iron cartwheel on stony track, br the past had arrived; br stolen the present from our comfortable grasp, br with a cartload of heavy, worn, br war-weary baggage, br and taken up residence in our front parlour br with its proudly sourced 'folk furniture' br that now looked like imposters in hiding. br br It was when I drove into our small town next day br and the faces of the locals whom I thought I knew so well br looked at me with eyes that seemed to own br clothes heavy with history br and fierce division br that I knew that the past had claimed us br and that our lives would never quite be ours again br br And that we must discover, not war but human pride br under the no longer picturesque br landscape br which we can no longer br pretend to own.